Читать книгу Enchanted in Regency Society: Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress / The Gamekeeper's Lady - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 11

Arriving back at the stables, Garrick found Johnson in the barn mending tack. ‘Where’s Dan? I want him to come with me on a small errand.’

‘I sent him to the kitchen for summat to eat. Got hollow legs, that lad ’as. Needs feeding up.’

Garrick nodded. ‘Saddle the quietest thing we’ve got for him, would you? I’ll look after Bess.’

They worked in the side-by-side stalls in silence for a few minutes.

‘Bright that lad ’e is,’ Johnson said to the jingle of a bit.

Garrick knew he meant Dan. He grunted agreement as he lifted his saddle on to the mare.

‘Good with the horses,’ Johnson continued. ‘You don’t have to tell him a thing more than once. ’Ad some rough treatment somewhere, I reckon.’

No point in keeping it a secret. ‘Apprenticed to a bad master. I convinced him to let him go.’

‘With your fists, I hear, my lord. Served the bastard right.’

A sick feeling roiled through Garrick’s gut. When he’d caught the bully laying a stick across the boy’s back, he’d seen red. The blood red of terrible rage. If Harry hadn’t separated them, the man might have cocked up his toes.

When it was over, he’d paid handsomely, both for Dan and for the damage he’d wrought, yet his gut still churned when he recalled his desire to spill blood. After years without incident, he’d lost control, let the inner beast slip off its chain. He’d been a fool to think he could beat the Le Clere curse. He wasn’t fit for civilised society.

If it wasn’t for his lost signet ring, he’d have left for Lisbon today.

‘Dan should not have said anything,’ Garrick muttered.

‘I winkled it out of him, my lord. I couldn’t understand why he flinched every time I raised me arm. Won’t do him any good around your uncle.’

Garrick patted Bess’s neck. ‘Keep the boy busy and he’ll do well enough. I’m surprised you don’t have more help.’

Johnson shrugged. ‘Mr Le Clere don’t like to spend a shilling when a groat will do.’

At that moment, Dan entered the stable whistling. Garrick leaned out of the stall. ‘Give Mr Johnson a hand, lad. You are riding out with me.’

Dan’s angelic face lit up. ‘Yes, my lord.’

From his side of the stable wall, Garrick listened to Johnson giving instructions. He’d been right to bring the lad here to Beauworth. He’d learn a useful trade as well as grow strong away from the foul London air. Today, he’d explain his plan for the boy’s future.

He finished saddling Bess and led her out into the sunshine. Dan followed a moment later, the old nag Johnson had found for him chewing on its bit.

‘Ready, boy?’ he asked.

‘Aye, my lord.’

They mounted and rode out of the stable yard towards the place where they’d been held up the previous night. If luck was with him, he’d find some trace of his attacker. Attackers, he amended. Damn it. He should have expected an accomplice. Her husband, perhaps? Or was she his doxy? A repulsive thought. Just thinking about the man with his hands on the saucy wench made him go cold.

What the hell was the matter with him? To be attracted to two women in one week seemed overly debauched even for him. Two very different females, too. One sweet, innocent, barely aware of her feminine appeal. The other, coarse and brash, a lure to the brute every civilised man held at bay.

What a base cur he was, to look forward to meeting the lady highwayman again.

Leaving the lane, they entered the woods. Ancient oaks and elms rose above their heads, the cool air smelling of leaf mould. A breeze stirred the branches and gold-dappled shadows shifted on the track. Here and there the damp soil revealed the passage of two horses travelling fast, one large and one smaller.

When they emerged into open country again, Garrick lost the tracks. Forced to dismount, he cast around.

Dan slid warily from his horse a short distance off. ‘There are hoof prints in the dried mud over here, my lord, leading that way.’

Garrick inspected the prints. They were the same as those he’d seen in the woods. ‘Well done, Dan. Let’s see where they lead.’

Walking their horses, they continued on. In the distance, hedgerows seemed to stitch the patchwork of green-and-gold fields together, and the dipping sun gilded the tops of emerald trees. Once in a while, a patch of soft earth, or dried mud, revealed evidence of their quarry.

Tucked in a valley near a copse of trees they came across an ancient-looking barn hunkered beside a stream-fed pond. ‘This looks promising,’ Garrick said.

Dan shifted in his saddle. ‘Do you think they are in there?’

‘Doubtful. But in case, I want you to remain here out of sight with our horses. Ride back to Beauworth if anything goes wrong.’

Straightening his thin shoulders, Dan dismounted and grabbed the bridles with a determined expression. The lad was tougher than he looked. He had to be, or he wouldn’t have survived.

Garrick cautiously crossed the clearing to the sound of twittering birds in the nearby trees. He peered through a crack in a wooden door barred and padlocked from the outside. He made clicking noises with his tongue and listened with satisfaction to the sound of stirring feet and the huffing breath of animals tethered inside. The faint gleam of a white coat in the shadowy interior confirmed what he had hoped. He had found their hiding place. And if they were keeping their horses in the neighbourhood, they no doubt expected to strike again.

He returned to Dan, his mind busy forming a plan. If this worked, he’d be leaving in a day or so. He looked into the face of the anxious boy and remembered why he’d brought him along. ‘I have some bad news for you, lad.’

The day after the fire, Martin’s bulk overflowed the wooden chair at Eleanor’s kitchen table.

‘Beauworth has been making enquiries,’ he said, glancing out of the window to where Sissy was sitting reading to Miss Boots. He lowered his voice.

‘Really,’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t hear the sudden increase of her heartbeat in her voice.

He nodded. ‘According to my cousin, he was worried they might try to steal the gold expected from London tonight.’

Eleanor straightened.

Martin’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a trap, my lady. Stands to reason.’

Traps sometimes closed in more than one way. ‘I think you are right.’ She crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt. ‘And besides, I wouldn’t dream of trying a robbery while you are gone.’

A sceptical expression passed across Martin’s rugged features, but he said no more. He flung a small leather pouch into her lap. It landed with a soft clink. ‘This is all the money I got from the first robbery. Not much, considering the danger.’

She nodded and gestured to the valise on the floor. ‘We need to make sure Lady Sissy is safe before we think of doing anything else.’

‘Did I hear my name?’ Sissy wandered in with Miss Boots draped across her shoulders. She rubbed her cheek against the cat’s soft fur.

‘Martin is going to take you to Aunt Marjory,’ Ellie said.

Tears pooled in Sissy’s eyes. She dropped to her knees by Eleanor’s feet. ‘No. You said I could stay with you.’

With a wince, Eleanor looked at Martin. He shook his head. He didn’t like this any more than Sissy did, but Eleanor could not let the little one stay any longer.

She ruffled the dark curls on the bowed head at her knee. ‘You like Aunt Marjory. She has cats. Miss Boots will have company.’

Sissy clutched Eleanor’s skirts. ‘Please don’t send me away, Len. Everyone else has gone. I’ll fetch the wood every day, I promise.’

Not even the loss of her parents to influenza or Michael’s freakish carriage accident had caused Eleanor so much pain in her heart as Sissy’s tears did now. Until William returned to take up his title, she and Sissy were all that were left of their once close-knit family. ‘This is just a visit, dearest. You always visit Aunt Marjory in the summer.’

A hiccup emerged from the face buried against her lap. ‘You won’t leave me there forever, will you? Cross your heart and hope to die.’

‘I promise.’ When Sissy looked up, she made the obligatory sign over her chest.

‘All right.’

The tone was grudging, but Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. She kissed the top of her sister’s head, stroked the glossy dark brown curls into some sort of order and blinked back her own tears. ‘William will be home soon, don’t forget.’ Anguished, she looked at Martin. ‘Time to go.’

He swung Sissy up into his strong arms. Eleanor handed up Miss Boots and followed them outside to the waiting gig. Martin lifted the child, her kitten and her bag into the carriage and climbed up beside her. He touched his hat. ‘I’ll return tomorrow.’ He set the horse in motion.

‘Give my regards to Aunt Marjory.’

Sissy stared at her mournfully. ‘I will.’ The child looked over her shoulder all the way down the road and Eleanor waved cheerfully until the gig was out of sight. Eyes burning, she closed her front door. If things went wrong, she might never see her family again. But she had to try to put things right.

Moisture trickled down her cheeks, hot at first, then cold little trails. Crying? She never cried.

She wiped her eyes and lifted her chin. This would be her last chance to make amends. She must not fail.

After pushing the bolt home in the door, she drew the curtains across the windows in the parlour and the bedroom. She pulled the trunk from beneath the bed she shared with Sissy and placed the pouch of money among the articles they’d stolen. Items she’d rejected for sale as too distinctive. One such sparkled in her hand. The Marquess had tried to seduce her in order to keep it. And she was a numbskull to be swayed by the charm of a man who had ruined so many lives.

She sat back on her heels, staring at her ill-gotten gains. She would do well to keep that in mind.

Dinner over, Garrick sauntered out of the house with his father’s sword under his arm. After a full morning going over the estate’s ledgers in his uncle’s absence, he now had an inkling of why Beauworth seemed less than healthy. Over the last decade, rents had declined. Why, he wasn’t sure. Le Clere would no doubt have the answer, but would he have a solution?

Modernisation might be the key. He’d heard others talking about new farming methods. He’d mention it to Uncle Duncan when next they met. Right now, he had to deal with the robbers.

In the stables, Johnson had Bess ready to go.

‘Some lucky lady you’re keeping warm tonight, my lord?’ Johnson said with a leer. ‘Not that nice Miss Ellie in the village, I hope. I heard as how you’d been showing an interest in that quarter.’

Garrick frowned. Blasted gossipmongers. In a small place like Boxted, it didn’t take much for rumours to fly. ‘Quite a different sort of entertainment.’ He showed the old man his sword. ‘Going to pay a call on Appleby. I’ve been promising him a return match since the last time I was home.’

Johnson nodded his head. ‘No doubt ’e’ll regret it.’

Garrick grinned. He had no intention of letting his coachman guess what he was about. He buttoned up his coat and pulled his beaver hat down low. ‘You know how Appleby is, so don’t worry if I’m gone for a day or two.’ It might take some time to track down the ring. If they’d sold it, he might have to follow it as far as London. Heaven forefend that they’d melted it down.

Dan must have heard his voice, for the boy came galloping down the ladder to the loft. ‘Can I come with you, my lord?’

‘Not this time, Dan.’

The boy’s face fell. ‘But you’ll be gone soon and—’

‘Don’t argue with his lordship,’ Johnson said. The boy flinched.

It only took one sharp word and the old fear resurfaced. Garrick’s ire rose, curling his hands into fists. The boy stepped back. Afraid of him, too. And rightly so, yet it cut him to the quick. ‘Lead the horse out to the yard, lad,’ he said quietly.

Dan hurried to comply. Garrick followed him outside.

With only the lamp above the stable door to light the courtyard, Garrick took the reins from a miserable-looking Dan. The lad was all alone and clearly worried about Garrick’s departure. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

The boy nodded.

‘I’ve laid a trap for our highwaymen.’

‘At the barn?’

He’d decided against laying in wait at their hideout. Things might get ugly if he cornered them both. He wanted to separate them. Catch one of them out in the open. Divide and conquer. Not something he had time to explain to the lad, so he nodded agreement. ‘Not a word to anyone, if you please.’

The boy’s face brightened. ‘And you’re takin’ yer sword, too. I’d like to see a sword fight.’ He lunged, with one arm straight. ‘Stick her with it.’

Bloodthirsty little wretch. ‘Perhaps,’ Garrick said, holding back the urge to laugh. ‘Be a good lad and obey Mr Johnson as you would me.’

Dan stepped back and bowed with an innate dignity that seemed at odds with his rough upbringing. He’d miss the lad when he left for the army, he realised. Enough maudlin thoughts. He had work to do.

With a nod he mounted and urged Bess into a canter. Beyond Boxted he found a rise not far from where Lady Moonlight had held him up two nights before. From this vantage, he would see the villains when they set up their ambush for the non-existent Beauworth coach. They were in for a nasty surprise.

Clouds fled from the moon and Mist stood out like a patch of snow on a bare mountain. Eleanor edged deeper into the shadows. As usual, her stomach tightened like a windlass and her mouth dried to dust, but tonight her nervousness was pitched far higher than normal. She missed the stalwart Martin. She tightened her grip on Mist’s reins.

The horse pricked his ears, flicking them in the direction of the field on the other side of the hedge. She held her breath, listening. A rustle of leaves, barely noticeable above the sound of the wind in the trees. A crack of a twig. It had to be him.

A rider broke through a gap in the hedge at the same moment the pitiless moon chose to reappear. Bad luck for him. ‘Now, Mist. Fly.’ She crouched over his neck and they galloped for the woods.

After a few minutes of dodging trees and bushes, she reined in. The pursuit crashed through the undergrowth behind her. She smiled. He’d taken the bait. A heady rush of excitement filled her veins, buzzing in her ears. He’d come alone, too, so she didn’t have to worry about leading more than him astray.

She guided the horse off the well-worn path and into the tangled bushes. Low branches kept her ducking, but Mist required only the lightest touch as he followed the path she’d mapped out earlier in the day.

The clearing came up fast. She stopped and glanced back. Nothing. No sound or sight of anyone. Dash it. She’d been too clever and managed to lose him. She started to turn back.

‘Hold.’ The harsh word came from in front, not behind.

She whipped her head around. There, across the moon-drenched space, pistol drawn, he waited, his horse breathing hard. He’d circled around instead of following. Her heart thundered, her mind scrambled with the alteration to her plan. She gulped a breath. Things would go very ill if she made a mistake.

‘You may observe,’ the Marquess said coolly, ‘that I have my pistol trained on you. So I suggest it is your turn to stand and deliver.’

She walked Mist into the middle of the clearing.

‘Throw down your pistols,’ he demanded.

No fool, then. She pulled them from their holsters one at a time and tossed them at his horse’s front hoofs. The animal rolled its eyes, but remained still. Damn.

‘Dismount,’ he said, his voice cold, his hand steady.

A chill ran down her spine. He looked dangerously angry. She turned, preparing to dismount with Mist between them.

‘Oh, no, you don’t. Get off on this side or I’ll shoot the horse.’

Blast. He obviously knew that old cavalry trick. She bit her lip. She had no choice but to obey. Cautiously, she slipped out of the saddle, retaining her hold on Mist’s bridle.

Still mounted, the Marquess walked his horse to stand directly before her. The big-boned mare towered over her and Mist. Raising her gaze, Eleanor watched his eyes, ready to drop to the ground if he decided to fire. You didn’t grow up with older brothers and a soldier father without learning something useful.

Atop his horse, his face stern, he looked like some avenging god of war. Beautiful in the way of a cold marble statue.

‘Well, wench, we meet again.’ His gazed raked her from her head to her heels. ‘An interesting costume. You don’t expect me to believe you are a boy, do you?’

She’d opted for the freedom of breeches for the work she had to do tonight. She cast him the saucy half-smile she’d copied from Lizzie, the upstairs maid at Castlefield. A lass with an eye for the lads. ‘Well, well, if it ain’t the Markiss Boworthy. So we meets agin’, milord. Come for another kiss, ’ave yer?’

Casually, he gathered his reins in one hand and prepared to dismount. The nodcock. Underestimating her because she was female. She tensed. As his foot touched the ground, his body turned and his pistol moved off target. She tore her sword from the scabbard on her saddle and clutched the blade in her left hand. As he squared up, she lunged. A swift arc with the hilt knocked his pistol up. It exploded harmlessly into the air. A flick and she tossed the sword into her right hand, ready to run him through.

‘Stand back,’ she ordered.

Steel hissed as he drew a sword from the scabbard at his side. He was carrying a sword? Only the military carried them these days, or those with nefarious intent. He must have noticed hers on her saddle the other evening. Damn it. Now what?

He must have seen her surprise, because he laughed. ‘Nice move, wench, but I am an expert swordsman. You might as well give up now.’

The way he said swordsman, almost like a caress, sent a shiver down her spine. Arrogant man. She would dashed well show him a thing or two before she presented her nice little surprise. ‘Damn yer eyes, Markiss.’ She slashed at him, testing his skill.

He stumbled back, yet parried the unexpected thrust. He chuckled softly. Was he enjoying this? He had the reach, without question, but he was nothing but an idle rake, whereas she had practised for hours with William every day before he left for his regiment. She hacked at him in a flurry of blows.

At first, Beauworth gave ground to her attack. He fought lazily, his tip dropping time and time again. Always managing to recover before she broke through. He kept glancing around. ‘Where’s your accomplice?’ he asked in insultingly conversational tones as he parried a particularly tricky thrust with seeming ease.

‘Takin’ care of business in Lunnon.’

‘So you thought you’d try thieving on your own?’

‘Like taking lollipops from a baby it is.’ In spite of her bravado, her heavy breathing meant she found engaging in a conversation difficult. She’d tried every trick she knew. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She dashed it away on her sleeve, circling her opponent and taking advantage of a brief reprieve.

‘Had enough, wench?’ he jibed.

Enough? She’d almost pinked him twice. She had the upper hand, despite her tiring arm. She gulped air into her desperate lungs. ‘Not ’til I have yer ’ead on me spit.’

His husky chuckle drifted maddeningly into the night. Damn him. She was wilting and he seemed not the slightest bit discomposed.

Without warning, he changed his stance, attacked her hard and fast, lunging and stabbing. No more did his sword point waver, it flashed in a quicksilver blur. The grate of steel on steel screeched into the silence. Forced back by his superior strength, she retreated toward the great oak tree, which had stood guard over this clearing for centuries. She bit her lip. Had she been too confident?

His sword tip closed in on her throat. She defended and recovered. Again, he forced her back. She tripped on a root, staggering back, her arms wide.

He flicked his wrist and her coatsleeve was cut from elbow to shoulder. They both knew it could just as easily have been her flesh. She could see it in his eyes and the arrogant tilt of his head.

Air scraped her throat dry. Trembles shook her hand. Her wrist ached. The point of her blade wavered badly. Tip up. Tip up. Her father’s laughing voice rang in her ears. Her wrist refused to comply. This man was dangerous and she was running out of time. She glanced over her shoulder, lined herself up.

The Marquess’s grin exuded arrogance. At any moment, he would have her. He knew it. She knew it. He was far better than he’d let her believe. She should have been more wary right from the beginning, more focused on what she needed to do.

The tree trunk loomed behind her. She thrust at him one last time. He twisted his wrist. Her sword spun free. He caught it neatly and effortlessly in his left hand and crossed both blades at her throat.

Her heart beat wildly. Her stomach pitched. She swallowed dust. This was not supposed to happen.

His teeth flashed white and his eyes gleamed. While her ribs ached with the need for air, his chest barely rose and fell. ‘Now, Lady Moonlight, we need to talk. But first, let’s see your face.’ He tossed her blade aside.

Eleanor’s knees shook so hard, she feared she might stumble on to his point, yet somehow she dodged his hand. ‘Put up…I concede.’

He gave a little ground, but his sword point did not waver from the base of her neck. ‘So, you thought you would have my head on a spit, did you? I wonder how yours will look stretched on the gallows. Give me the mask.’

She lifted her hands away from her sides in an extravagant gesture of defeat, felt the dagger slide into her palm. She flicked it free of her sleeve. The blade flashed wickedly.

His jaw dropped, then he laughed. ‘You think to defeat a sword with a hat pin?’

God, she hoped so. She cast it underhand at the branch behind his head. He dodged. The net dropped, tangling his sword in the mesh. He cursed. Sawed at the ropes to no effect. She ran for the coil of rope behind the tree, hauled it through the block and tackle she’d nailed above his head. The mouth of the net tightened, trapping him and his sword inside.

She ran for her pistols and spun around. ‘Methinks…yer took o’er long, Markiss,’ she gasped. She wrapped the length of rope around his torso, while he glared at her through the mesh. ‘You should ’ave finished it when you had the chance.’

A net. The little hellion. Garrick’s face heated. She’d caught him like a cod fish. No matter how he twisted, he couldn’t break free and could get no leverage with his blade.

‘Drop yer sword,’ she said, pointing her pistol at his head. With his legs free, he could try a flying leap and no doubt one of them would get shot. Trouble was it was more likely to be he with his arms trapped against his body. He released the hilt of his sword, and she extracted it from the net, kindly not slicing him in the process.

He tried stretching the ropes with his shoulders and elbows.

‘Save yer strength,’ she advised, tying the free end of the rope to her horse. ‘You’ve a long walk ahead of yer.’

‘Like hell.’

‘Yer choice. Walk or be dragged.’ She mounted the grey and gathered up Bess’s reins.

Bloody hell. He was going to see her hang for this.

It was a long walk back to the barn he’d found the day before, but she took it nice and easy, and if he hadn’t been bundled like a sack of washing, he might not have minded the exercise.

Inside the barn, she bade him sit.

‘What now?’ he asked as she tied his ankles and fastened the rope about his waist to a metal ring on the wall.

‘I would think a Markiss ought to be worth a guinea or two.’

That he hadn’t expected. He forced a laugh. ‘So it’s a ransom you’re seeking, is it?’ He tried to ease the pressure of the ropes, but there was no give. ‘My uncle won’t fall for it. ’Tis well known that once the ransom is paid, abductors kill the victim. He will, however, hunt you down like dogs.’

She kicked at his boot. ‘Looks like yer the dead man, then.’

She left him in the dark with his thoughts, his growing anger and the scent of hay and horse manure in his nostrils.

He struggled inside his bindings. Nothing he did made them any looser and he found nothing within reach to serve as a blade.

The more time passed, the more fury filled his heart until his head ached. He imagined his captor swinging from a gibbet, or hanging by her arms in some dark dungeon. But each time he got to the point of murdering her, he found himself kissing her instead. More frustration.

What would Uncle Duncan do when he received their ransom note? He’d be worried mindless. He’d probably pay the damned ransom, too. Something the estate could ill afford, apparently.

She’d have to set him loose at some point and then he’d find a way to break free. In the meantime, it would be better to think of something other than his captor if he wanted to remain sane.

The delightful vision of Ellie Brown floated across his mind’s eye. Now there was a maid worth thinking about. She reminded him of untouched spring mornings and pristine golden beaches—all that was good in the world—whereas Lady Moonlight was dark nights and silk sheets and the heat of lust—pure wickedness.

Given the choice, which one did he want? Both. Together in one bed. He groaned as his body expressed approval of the image then let his mind take him where it would. Better to be driven mad by sexual frustration than rage.

Garrick opened his eyes to the sound of raised voices. Two voices, one male, one female, outside the barn. A falling out of thieves? He blinked to clear his vision. He must have slept. His neck and back were sore and his hands and feet were numb. The barn door swung open and sunlight streamed into his prison. He squinted at the large figure outlined in the doorway. Her accomplice had returned. He looked furious.

Pistol in one hand, knife in the other, the masked man slashed through the net and then the ropes. He yanked Garrick to his feet. Blood rushed into his extremities. He bit back a protest. ‘Outside,’ his captor said.

Struggling to regain his wits, Garrick shuffled out on feet pricked by a thousand pins, and every joint in his body complaining. Outside in the dazzle of a fine morning, the woman, also masked, bent over a pan on the fire. The blankets piled nearby suggested she’d camped there.

As usual, her hair was covered with her peruke. She looked up as Garrick sat down cross-legged against the wall of the barn. ‘You walk like an old man.’

He glared at her. ‘So would you if you’d been tied like a parcel all night.’

She collected more wood for the fire from a pile at the side of the barn. On the way back she sniffed as she passed him. ‘You stinks. Ben, take ’im to the pond to wash.’

So her partner’s name was Ben.

‘On your feet, my lord,’ the man said.

‘Why bother?’ he said, glowering at Ben. ‘You’re just going to murder me.’

Ben picked up his rifle, grabbed Garrick by the upper arm and marched him down to the pond where he untied the ropes at his wrists.

‘Strip.’

Garrick glanced at the woman. ‘No.’

‘Then I’ll do it fer ye while she holds the rifle. Leave your damned breeches on if ye must.’

Garrick huffed out a breath. No point in arguing for the sake of it.

He removed his coat and dropped it at his feet. His shirt followed, and he sat to remove his boots and stockings. Retaining his breeches, he stood. With a wary eye on Ben, he backed into the water.

‘You’ll see my bullet coming,’ Ben said.

Garrick didn’t trust either of them and let disbelief show in his face. When the water was deep enough, he sluiced the water over his arms and face. The woman strolled to the water’s edge and tossed him a bar of soap, then she picked up his shirt and stockings, rinsed them and hung them to dry over the fence.

‘I’ll have those back, wench,’ Garrick called. She ignored him.

Although the mud on the bottom oozed between his toes, the water was cool and reasonably clear. Garrick could not help but enjoy the freshness after his ghastly night. He kept an eye on Ben who, while he held his rifle casually, held it with the assurance of a man practised in its use. Garrick was sure the man had seen military service from his disciplined movements and ramrod carriage. A hard man, who would not make escape easy.

He soaped his hair and sank beneath the water to rinse. When he came to the surface he saw Ben alert, his rifle cocked. He stood up slowly, aware of the wench watching from the bank, her gaze travelling over his torso, her lips parting slightly as if she’d never seen a man without his shirt.

Heat pooled instantly in his loins. Damn her. She’d done it on purpose. He splashed more water over his face, forcing his body under control before he could think of leaving the water. Fortunately, she returned to her cooking.

So Garrick made his way out of the pond and headed for his clothes.

‘No need to be shy,’ the woman said. ‘Put them on when they are dry.’

Ben looked scandalised. He muttered something under his breath, but gestured for Garrick to go ahead.

The scent of bacon assaulted his nostrils. Whether because it was being cooked outside, or because he was ravenously hungry, his mouth watered. He kept his face impassive and returned to his place against the barn wall.

‘Sit by the fire,’ she ordered. ‘We don’t want yer catching a chill.’

He curled his lip. ‘Not before you get my money, at least.’

Ben jerked the rifle. ‘Sit near the fire.’

Garrick cursed and sat as directed.

The woman slapped the eggs and bacon on to a slab of bread and handed it to him. She did the same for Ben. It tasted as good as it smelled. It would do no good to starve himself. He’d need every ounce of strength to escape these two.

She stood up. ‘We need fresh water.’ She walked away.

Moments later, he heard her gasp behind him.

Ben looked up from his food. ‘What is it?’

Garrick knew what had caught her attention. It was the reason he never removed his shirt in public. He glowered, but said nothing as she placed a cup of water beside him, her gaze still fixed on his back.

‘Look at this,’ she said to Ben.

Unfolding his brawny body with a grunt, Ben stood up and joined her at Garrick’s shoulder. He whistled softly through his teeth.

‘Who did this?’ she asked.

Garrick heard the pity in her voice and cringed. He did not need her sympathy, damn her. ‘An accident, years ago.’ Uncle Duncan had lost his temper. He’d expressed his regret as Garrick lay on his stomach, bandaged and medicated. Le Clere had never lost control like that again but it always served to remind Garrick what lay beneath the surface.

‘An accident?’ She stared at Ben, her face full of incredulity. ‘Have you ever seen…?’

‘In the army, I have. An officer’s cane can do that kind of damage.’

She reached out and pressed a finger on his back. Garrick jumped with a curse.

‘Sorry,’ she said, whipping her hand away.

‘Forget it,’ he ground out through clenched teeth.

‘Just give me my shirt if the sight troubles you.’

But once again she touched him, gently now, tracing the three straight diagonal lines across his back. His skin jumped and flickered, although her touch was as gentle as a butterfly, as light as a whispering breeze, almost a caress. He felt his chest constrict. The women he had known in London were interested in only one thing and it did not involve tenderness. No woman had ever touched him so softly, not since his mother…

Garrick squeezed his eyes tight, forcing down the memories. He pulled away from her questing fingers.

Ben shook his head. ‘They’re old, but no accident.’

She paced away. ‘If he’s to spend another night here, you will need to find a better way to make him secure.’

He glared at the woman. How long did they expect to keep him here? ‘Le Clere won’t pay you. He is not such a fool.’ He hoped.

‘I’ll find something.’ Ben’s voice sounded kindly, less harsh. ‘Up you get, lad. Sit over by the fence.’

Garrick rose to his feet. Silent and grim, Ben tied him to the fence with enough rope to shift his position. Tied up like a wild animal. Like one of his nightmares. He clenched and unclenched his hands, forcing himself to hold back the anger rising in his gullet. He took a deep breath. Then another. Control. Sooner or later they’d make a mistake.

Ben left them on foot, meaning he was headed for somewhere nearby. Were they in league with one of the local farmers? One of his tenants? An interesting and disturbing thought.

Forced into idleness, he watched the wench groom all three horses. The skin-tight breeches hugged the flair of her hips, and her slender thighs above riding boots were the stuff of pleasurable dreams. The full shirt and open waistcoat didn’t hide her narrow waist, but gave no impression of the size of her breasts. Those he’d felt, small and firm, when he’d kissed her.

He shifted, furious and uncomfortable at his body’s arousal. No doubt she knew how incredibly sensual she looked in her boy’s garb. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing he’d noticed. Instead, he closed his eyes to picture her face behind the mask, light eyes, certainly. But what colour hair lay beneath her ridiculous old-fashioned wig? Her eyebrows were fair. But her hair could be anything from red to gold. The sun warmed his skin. A bee bumbled by in a soft drone on air scented with grass and sweet clover.

Having finished with the horses, Eleanor decided to feed her prisoner before Martin returned and they left for the night. A platter of bread, cheese and pickles seemed a somewhat meagre offering for a man who must be used to the finest dining. On the way, she gathered up his now-dry clothes. The Marquess needed to get dressed. The sight of him sprawled on the grass like some Adonis really was too much, especially since he had fallen asleep, leaving her free to peek all she wanted. The way he had watched her from beneath half-lowered lids, while she groomed the horses, had made her feel hot and awkward. She’d been glad when he’d drifted off to sleep.

He looked so peaceful propped against the fence, his head lolling against a naked broad shoulder. Like an angel. A fallen one, with that sensual cast of his lips and the body of a heathen god. And there was just so much of him. Even stretched out on the grass, his male virility was overpowering.

Her breath became shallow as she stood just looking at the rogue. What would they have thought of each other if they had met under different circumstances? In London, perhaps? Would they have met? A proper young lady wouldn’t be introduced to a rake with his reputation.

Whereas a real lady highwayman might well take advantage of a handsome prisoner tied up at her mercy. A little thrill shot through her insides at the image. Dash it. How could she be so wicked? She really wished she’d never started along this path.

She set the plate beside him and the pile of clothes. He must have sensed her presence because he opened one eye, then the other and stretched. ‘You’ll forgive me for not getting up.’

Polite to a fault, even if there was an edge of sarcasm in his voice. ‘I’ll forgive ye. Eat. It’s all you’ll get today.’ She flopped down against the fence. ‘So you thought to trap us with yer talk of gold at the inn?’ she asked as he munched on the bread.

He swallowed and she watched the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple in the strong column of his throat with utter fascination. ‘I wanted my signet ring back,’ he said.

‘Not the watch?’

A glimmer of a smile curved his lips. ‘A gift from a lady with rather flamboyant tastes. You are welcome to it.’ His face sobered. ‘The ring was my father’s.’

The hollow note in his voice made her cringe—she knew how awful she’d feel if she lost her mother’s locket. But he only had himself to blame. If he’d not proved so intractable about the repayment of the mortgage, none of this would have happened.

Something moved at the edge of her vision. By her knee. A spider. Big and black and hairy. Walking up her leg.

She froze. A shudder ran down her spine. Held her rigid.

‘Looks like you’ve made a new friend,’ he said, grinning.

‘Get it off,’ she gasped.

He laughed. ‘It’s only a spider.’

‘Get it off me,’ she said through stiff lips, afraid to breath in case it moved. ‘Please.’ Her voice shrilled.

With a muttered curse, he leaned forward and brushed the horrid thing away with his bound hands. It scuttled into the grass. ‘There. It’s gone.’

Her skin prickled as if it was crawling all over her. Trembles shook her body. Her teeth chattered. ‘I hate them.’

‘It’s gone.’ He tipped her chin with the back of his hand, smiling. ‘I promise you.’ He lifted his arms, dropped them over her head, around her shoulders and drew her on to his lap. ‘You are all right.’ He pressed his lips to her jaw below her mask, let her nuzzle into his shoulder where she drew on his calm, comforted by the steady sound of his heartbeat.

Slowly her trembles dissipated. She felt safe, protected, for the first time in many months. And being held in his arms seemed like the most natural thing in the world. The chills of revulsion lessened. Heat rushed to her face. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ she muttered against silken skin smelling of soap and smoke from the fire, and another scent. Him.

‘We all have our fears,’ he said gently, as if he really understood. He tipped her chin with the back of his bound hands, the sight of the rope making her cringe. And when she met his gaze, his warm brown eyes showed concern. ‘All right now?’ he asked, then frowned. ‘Tears?’ He smoothed her cheek below the mask with his thumb, then bent his head and pressed his lips to the place he had rubbed as if to kiss away her fear. Like an adult with a child. Sweet. Kind.

An ache squeezed her chest. Guilt. And something else she didn’t dare name.

She dropped a kiss of gratitude on his cheek, missed and landed on the corner of his mouth. He angled his head and captured her lips full on, licking and tasting, while his forearm supported her nape. Tingles raced across her breasts. Her insides clenched.

Oh, heavens. At any moment, Martin would return. Yet she didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t stop. Not yet. Soon. She opened her mouth to his questing tongue. And she was lost. Lost in pleasure. Dizzy with the rapid beat of her heart. The lack of air. Sensations rippled though her body, pleasurable little thrills, warmth, and languid melting.

Her hands clung to his sun-warmed shoulders. Satin skin, firm muscles rippled beneath her fingers. Pure strength. Lovely wicked flutters deep between her thighs held her enthralled.

She lay her hand flat against the haze of beard on his jaw. He broke the kiss, turned his head, the roughened skin grazing her palm, and licked the base of her thumb, hot and wet, followed instantly by cool. A shiver of delight danced across her breasts.

She moaned at the sensual onslaught.

This is wrong, a little voice whispered. You will never be the same again. Get up now.

He shifted his weight and eased her on to the ground, cushioning her shoulders with his forearm. She opened her thighs at the nudge of his knee and a sweet burst of pleasure fired in her core.

‘Untie me, chérie. Vite. Quickly. Free my hands.’

Eleanor stared at him blankly.

‘Cut the rope,’ he pleaded, his breathing ragged and shallow, his voice hoarse. ‘Set me free. I’ll do nothing to hurt you.’ His soft, accented voice was an urgent enticing whisper in her ear. His thigh ground against her, pushing between her legs, creating hot surges of sweet agony.

‘A promise you will keep, my lord.’

Ah, no. Martin. Face scalding, she slipped under the loop of the Marquess’s arms and rose to her feet, breathing hard. What had she been thinking?

Martin cocked his rifle with a loud threatening click and the Marquess struggled to a sitting position.

Bewilderingly, her mind seemed to be full of molasses, thick and syrupy and deadly. He’d comforted her and she’d dissolved like butter in hot milk. Mute with embarrassment, she stared at Martin weighed down by a necklace of iron chain and shackles. He levelled his rifle.

The Marquess stiffened, as if bracing for…Oh God. Martin was going to fire. ‘Put the gun down,’ she yelled. ‘He is unarmed and bound. No harm was done.’

Martin held her stare for a long moment, then grimaced. He let the rifle fall to his side, but his body remained stiff, his movements jerky as he set the rifle against the fence. He pulled the Marquess to his feet. ‘Back to the barn for yer lordship.’

‘Take your hands off me,’ the Marquess said, steadying himself on his feet, his face as flushed as hers felt.

Was he ashamed of their kiss? And why did it matter? Once this was over, she’d never see him again. A pain she couldn’t fathom filled her heart. Oh, God, what was wrong with her? Kissing him like a wanton, all the while knowing Martin would return at any moment. She had lost her mind.

He’d been so kind about the spider, not laughing the way her brothers always had at her stupid female fear, that she’d forgotten they were enemies. And now Martin looked ready to commit murder. Something she would not allow. She picked up the Marquess’s clothes and the rest of the food and followed them into the cool depths of the barn.

Martin fixed the iron chain to the ring in the wall and fastened the shackle to the Marquess’s ankle before cutting the ropes free.

‘That’ll hold you,’ Martin said.

The Marquess glanced up from inspecting his chain. ‘Your accommodations leave much to be desired.’ The lazy drawl seemed at odds with the revulsion she glimpsed in his eyes. ‘Why not shoot me and have done? I’ll be damned if you’ll get any money.’

Bravado, she thought. And yet…

‘We’ll see,’ Martin said, stepping back.

‘Leave me alive and I’ll hunt you down like dogs,’ the Marquess said, in matter-of-fact tones.

He meant it. Was he taunting Martin deliberately so he’d shoot? Did he hate those chains so much? Bile rose in her throat, a sour taste of guilt. Her heart sank. She couldn’t see it through. She could not keep him chained here day after day, thinking they were going to kill him and watching his hatred grow.

She gazed down at him. He winked. More bravado.

Martin growled a curse.

In her heart she knew the Marquess would try again to charm her into setting him free. And she wasn’t sure how long she could resist, unless she kept away from him completely. It would be best if she left him to Martin. Best for her. Not for him, given Martin’s present mood.

Coward.

And what if his uncle wouldn’t pay the ransom? What would they do then? Not only would they not have the money they needed, they’d have the Marquess bent on revenge. If only she had something he wanted in exchange for the mortgage.

There was one thing he seemed to want. Her. And that was out of the question. Wasn’t it? Was it really too high a price to pay for what she’d done?

She inhaled a deep breath. ‘Bring ’is horse inside,’ she said to Martin. ‘We needs to talk.’

They did very little talking on the way back to her cottage after leaving their horses at Martin’s cousin’s farm. Anger surrounded Martin like a wall Eleanor could almost touch; while she regretted causing him upset, his grim silence left her free to mull over her options.

The Marquess did like her. He kissed her when she was Ellie. And he kissed her when she was Lady Moonlight. And instead of kissing her, he could easily have overpowered her before Martin came back. He’d been too busy kissing her to save his own neck, the rake, and she’d thanked him by chaining him to a wall. She winced.

But if she took this step, she’d be well and truly ruined. Wasn’t she already far beyond the pale of what was acceptable? A thief, and, if this afternoon was anything to go by, a wanton. Her stomach gave a horrid little lurch, the kind that stops your breath at the knowledge of the inevitable. It didn’t matter. She was the one who’d created the mess, she should be the one to pay the price. Not the Marquess. Certainly not Sissy and William. And definitely not Martin. It also would not lead to prison.

But she’d have to get Martin out of the way.

Once inside the cottage, Martin put his hands on his hips and glowered. She braced herself for a lecture. She was actually surprised he’d lasted this long before taking her to task.

‘What is it you want to say, Martin?’

‘I’d like to know what you thought you were doing with that lordling. Don’t you understand? He could…’ He took a breath. ‘You don’t know what these men of the world are like.’

A flash of heat scalded her cheeks. Martin thought of her as an innocent, but what had happened out at the barn wasn’t all one-sided by any means. Where the Marquess was concerned, it seemed she didn’t have an iota of control.

‘It wasn’t what you think,’ she muttered. ‘There was a spider.’ Martin knew how she hated the horrid crawly things.

‘Well, if you hadn’t been rolling around the grass you wouldn’t have seen a spider. I know what I saw, and he had his hands on you.’

And she hadn’t resisted. Not for a minute. Shame flooded through her at the look of disgust in his eyes, even though she knew he was trying to hide it.

‘Give up this nonsense, my lady,’ he pleaded. ‘Before you end up on the gallows, or worse.’

Unfortunately, worse seemed to be the only alternative. She avoided his gaze, fearing he would sense something amiss. ‘You are right. This is not going to work.’

Martin let go a long breath. ‘Thank God. I’ll go and set him free.’

‘No. I’ll do that first thing in the morning.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I need you to take a message to William. Right away. Then go to Lady Sissy and wait.’

‘You will be there when I get back?’

‘No.’

He looked startled, then worried. He opened his mouth to argue.

She forestalled him. ‘It is all in the note to William. I’m going to Scotland to visit Molly MacDonald—you know she’s been begging to see me for weeks. I can’t risk the Marquess discovering my whereabouts.’

The worry on his face didn’t ease. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I know I am.’

She pulled out paper and a quill and sat down at the kitchen table while Martin paced back and forth, as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind. She ignored him. First she wrote a short note to Mr Jarvis, telling him the money was on the way. Next a note to Molly, asking her to forward her letters on to William when they arrived and promising to explain the whole when she arrived in a few weeks’ time. ‘I want you to post these for me in the morning.’

Martin halted and nodded.

The next letter was to William. Explaining the mess she’d caused and begging him to wait with Sissy until he heard from her that all was resolved. She sanded and sealed the note. ‘You will take this to Portsmouth and leave it with the harbour master. Stress that it must be put into William’s hands the moment his ship arrives.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he understands. You will take care, my lady? Setting him free and all?’

‘Yes, Martin. I know exactly what I have to do. Give me the key.’

She handed him the letters and he gave her the key to the Marquess’s shackles.

‘I’ll wait until you have time to get well on the road,’ she said. ‘Tell William not to worry when you see him. And, Martin, whatever you do, do not bring him here. The Marquess is not to blame for this.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Something tells me you are keeping something back. You should go to your brother yourself. Tell him the whole story to his face.’

No fool, Martin Brown. ‘Martin, do this and I promise I will never ask you for aught else. Now make haste. You don’t want to miss William’s arrival.’

He sighed. ‘Very well, my lady. But I will keep you to your word.’