Читать книгу Beguiled - Shannon Drake - Страница 7

“DOWN WITH THE MONARCHY!”

Ally Grayson could hear the shouting as the carriage slowed. They were passing along the main street of the small village of Sutton, and she had suspected, even as they neared the town, that there might be trouble. Both saddened by the mood of the country and curious, she drew back the curtain of the carriage window.

People were milling about in an angry mood bearing placards that read “End the Reign of Thieves!” and “Royal Murder!” Some trudged the street in silence; others shouted angrily before the fine redbrick building that housed the sheriff’s office.

Sour stares met the carriage, but no one moved against it. Ally was on her way to see her godfather, Brian Stirling, Earl of Carlyle, an admired and beloved figure despite the fact he was an ardent supporter of sad and aging Victoria. No one would wield a finger against him, his property or those beneath his protection, as his carriage proclaimed her to be.

Still, the tension in the streets was ugly.

Ally saw several people she recognized. Just outside one of the decaying Tudor houses that were so common in the area, she could see the journalist Thane Grier, not taking part in any way but observing avidly. She took time to observe him herself. He was a tall, handsome man, eager to move up in the world and be recognized as a writer of note. She wasn’t at all certain what his opinion on the matter at hand might be, nor would he himself think it mattered. She thought—having read many of his articles—he would report objectively. He was not so determined to be an essayist as he was to be known for his acute eye and sound evaluation of the facts.

“See here!” came a shout from the sheriff himself as he emerged onto the steps in front of his office. “You will all stop this nonsense and go about your business!” he roared. “By God, what have we come to? Circus shows?”

Ally felt sore that the sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham, would have the power to quiet the crowd. He was a war hero who had been knighted for his service in India. A big man, tall, broad-shouldered—and in the process of acquiring an ample girth—he had a head full of snow-white hair, muttonchops and a distinguished mustache.

Even so, there were a few more rumblings, despite the sheriff’s words. “Murder,” a woman cried out weakly. “Two men murdered—and them men who spoke out against the waste in Her Majesty’s court. Something must be done about a queen who condones—no, orders—such heinous and foul deeds.”

Ally couldn’t see the woman’s face. She was clad in black, a veil observing her features. She was wearing widow’s weeds. She did recognize the woman standing next to her, who tried to hush her and draw her into her arms. It was Elizabeth Harrington Prine, widow of Jack Prine, a valiant soldier who had died in South Africa. Through her husband, she owned thousands of acres just west of the forest surrounding the village.

“Murder!” the woman in black shouted again.

Sir Angus didn’t get a chance to reply. He was joined on the steps by an ally in the cause of justice, the elderly Lord Lionel Wittburg. Wittburg was taller but thinner, and his hair was pale silver rather than solid white. His reputation, however, reached back almost as long as the queen’s reign, and the country had always loved him as a stalwart soldier. He echoed the words that were in Ally’s own mind. “How dare you?”

But though he spoke the words full force, Ally sensed he was about to start crying, and she knew why. Hudson Porter—a man with whom he had little in common but who had been a dear comrade from his days in India—was one of the anti-monarchists who had so recently been slain.

A third man joined them. He was far younger, very attractive, a gentleman often seen on the society pages— a man who had the ability to charm those around him. “Please, this is unseemly behavior for good Englishmen. And women,” he added with a roguish smile. “There is no call for this, no need for this.” He was Sir Andrew Harrington, cousin of the widow trying to give solace to the woman in black. Hudson Porter had not been married, Ally knew, so the woman could not be his widow. A sister, cousin…lover? The other activist who had been slain, Dirk Dunswoody, had been eighty years old if a day at the time of his murder, and in all those years he had remained a bachelor, studying law and medicine, traveling abroad with the queen’s army for much of that time. Why he had turned so violently against the monarchy, no one knew, unless it was because he had felt he should have been knighted for his service. Ally knew there had been a strange scandal associated with his name, and in its wake he had been passed over.

“Please, please, everyone. Go about your business. We will solve nothing here, and all of you know that,” Sir Angus told the crowd.

There were continued murmurings, but there was movement, as well.

The crowd was apparently dispersing enough for Shelby, Lord Stirling’s coachman, valet, assistant and man of all work to drive the carriage through the streets. As he carefully wended his way, Ally saw that Thane Grier, still keeping his silence and his distance, was busy scribbling notes on a pad he pulled from his vest pocket.

She dropped the curtain as they left the small village square behind and headed along the road through the forest.

She didn’t notice at first when the carriage began to pick up speed. She had dropped deep into thought, worrying about the state of the realm, then about her own situation. She couldn’t help but wonder about the summons that was bringing her to the castle. It undoubtedly had something to do with the fact that her birthday was fast approaching. Though she had considered herself an adult for quite some time, her guardians had wanted to protect her from the world as long as possible, and it was only on this birthday that she would finally be considered an adult in their eyes. She loved those who had raised her and cared for her, but she was eager to have a say in her own life. Though her upbringing had been sheltered, she thrived on newspapers and books, and had savored each of her few excursions into the city, to a world of theaters and museums. She certainly considered herself intelligent and well educated, even if most of that education had taken place in a small school in the country or from the private tutors who had been sent to her humble home deep in the woods.

She had managed a bit of a peek at the real world. Though she had grown up in the care of her three “aunties,” she’d also had the benefit of her three sets of godparents. How she had been so blessed, she couldn’t even imagine. Three wonderful, sweet women to actually raise her, and as an incredible addition to her life, three couples numbered among the peers of the realm to see that she received the best education and many benefits. Those latter three ladies—Maggie, Kat and Camille—were amazing, unique, and had once been hellions, she dared say to herself, even if not to them. She was glad of their wild past, because if they were to become angry when they discovered she had been taking her future into her own hands, she could remind them they were rather modern women themselves. Lady Maggie had defied all convention to minister to the prostitutes in the East End, Camille had met her Lord husband through her work in the Egyptology department at the museum; and Kat had already ventured out on several expeditions to the pyramids of Egypt and even into the Valley of the Kings. They could hardly expect her to be meek and mild and not want to make her own way in the world.

As she brooded, the carriage began to go faster and faster, and finally it began to career madly down the road.

Ally was roused from her meditations when she was slammed from one side to the other. She struggled to find her seat once again, and then held on for dear life. She wasn’t afraid, just puzzled.

Was Shelby worried that the protesters who had filled the village square might be coming after them? That couldn’t be. Surely he knew that frightened farmers and country shopkeepers would offer no real threat. Especially not when there were such illustrious men as Sir Harrington, Sir Cunningham and Lord Wittburg there to assure them.

So why was Shelby suddenly driving like a maniac?

She frowned, scrambling for balance, and realized that the deaths that had brought on the fear and frenzy in the village were certainly frightening enough. Two men murdered, public figures whose views opposed the Crown and who had pushed for an end to the monarchy. The deaths were terrible, and the times in general were hard. The poor queen, Victoria, aging and still so sad; Prince Edward taking on more and more duties; the threat of war in South Africa again…naturally, people were distraught. For many, poverty and ignorance superceded the amazing progress that Victoria’s reign had brought in the fields of education and medicine. Workers were protected now, as they had never been before. There were those who protested the allowance given the Royal House. Those who felt that the royals did not do enough to warrant the money spent on the upkeep of their many properties and lavish lifestyle. England had a prime minister and a Parliament, and many felt that should be enough.

With a sharp thunk, a wheel went into a pothole, and she nearly hit the ceiling. What was going on? Shelby wasn’t the type to be easily alarmed. He wouldn’t be frightened by law-abiding protesters. Then again, the protesters were not the ones actually causing the tremendous unease in the streets and the press at the moment. That unease could be laid at the feet of those trying to inflame the crowd by making people believe that the monarchy was behind the murders of those politicians who were speaking out against them. There were far too many people willing to believe that the Crown was silently behind the murders.

She knew from her studies that anti-monarchists were not new to English politics, and she even understood, at least to some degree, why such a movement had come to the forefront again now. Despite Queen Victoria’s determination to bring abstinence and goodness back to the Crown, her children, including her heir, had behaved scandalously. Back in the days of Jack the Ripper, there had even been a theory that her grandson, Prince Albert Victor, was the murderer. Since that day, a very vocal faction of anti-monarchists had not hesitated to step forward. These current murders, said by many to be the monarchy’s attempt to quell that faction, had brought the political fever to such a rabid pitch that many of the country’s sanest politicians were warning that there must be compromise and temperance, or there would be civil war.

Ally had never met the queen, but from all she had seen and heard, she couldn’t believe that the woman who had brought such progress to her empire and still mourned a husband lost decades ago could be guilty of such horror.

But for all her knowledge of history and politics, she realized, she still had no idea why the carriage was racing so terrifyingly fast.

Suddenly, with a jerk, the carriage began to slow.

Surely, she thought, this could have nothing to do with the furor going on because two men, two politicians and writers who had viciously slandered the queen, had been found dead, their throats slit. Or with the distraught people in the streets, bearing their signs to protest the queen and Prince Edward. No, the cause of this had to be quite different, and if so…

If so, she knew the answer.

They moved slower, the horses walking now, not galloping. She heard the sound of a gunshot, and froze. There was shouting from nearby; then she heard Shelby calling hoarsely in return, but she couldn’t understand his words.

“Stop the carriage!” a deep, authoritative voice thundered.

Tense, knowing that they were nowhere near the castle, Ally leaned toward the window, pulled back the drapery and looked out.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and it was then that icy rivulets of fear at last snaked through her system.

She had been right.

There was a rider right by her side, a man seated upon a great black stallion, clad in a black coat, hat and mask. Other riders shifted restlessly behind him.

The highwayman!

She had never dreamed that such a thing could happen in her humdrum life. As a devotee to several newspapers, she’d read about this man and his accomplices. In an age when more and more automobiles were finding their way onto the roads, they were being threatened by a highwayman on horseback.

He hadn’t killed anyone, she reminded herself. In fact, some were comparing him to Robin Hood. No one seemed quite able to say just which poor people he was giving to, although shortly after the Earl of Warren had been held up, churches in the East End had suddenly been offered large sums to feed and clothe their flocks.

The highwayman had been stopping carriages for the past several months, and had stolen several things here and there, items of sentimental value, that had mysteriously made their way back to their owners. A thief, but not a murderer….

In fact, he had begun his depredations just after the first murder had taken place. As if the country had not had enough to worry about.

The wheels ground to a halt; she heard the whinnying protest of the horses, drawn up so short. And then she heard the coachman’s words.

“My man, you’ll not be harming the lass. You’ll be shooting me first.”

Dear Shelby. Her bulky champion and guardian for as long as she could remember. He would protect her to his dying breath.

And because of Shelby, she found courage.

She threw open the carriage door and called out to him. “Shelby, we’ll risk no lives for the likes of this thief and his brigands. Whatever the fellow wants, we will give it to him and be on our way.”

The highwayman reined in his great black steed and dismounted in an agile leap. His accomplices remained seated upon their horses.

“Who else is in that carriage?” he demanded.

“No one,” she said.

He clearly didn’t believe her. Striding to the open door, he reached in, seeking no permission. His hands landed upon her waist, and she was lifted unceremoniously from the elegant carriage and set upon the ground. The man apparently believed there must be some hidden compartment within, for he disappeared into the carriage, then jumped out to stand beside her.

“Who are you, and what are you doing, traveling alone on the road?” he demanded. His face was hidden by a black satin eye mask, but he had dark hair, pulled back in a queue at his nape. He wore a wool cape, and his riding boots reached his knees.

At first she was shaking, but she was not going to be cowed. If he meant to change his methods and kill her, he would do so one way or the other. Therefore, she would go down fighting. She would not grovel. He was a thief, a brigand, a wretched excuse for a human being.

“You are nothing but riffraff,” she informed him, “and I don’t see why my travel arrangements should be any of your business.”

“Miss!” Shelby protested, afraid for her.

The highwayman nodded toward one of his men—also masked and dressed in black, a color that meant camouflage in the night—who approached Shelby as the coachman tried to ease a hand toward his pistol.

“Don’t do it,” the first man warned softly. “No harm will come to you—or the lass.”

Ally wondered if it was the word “lass,” coming from a man who had no idea of her accomplishments, that both irritated her and gave her such great courage. She was always dismissed as “the lass.” Everyone was always doing what they considered best for her. Her accomplishments were applauded, yet her future seemed to belong to everyone but her. Thanks to her privileged upbringing, she knew Latin, French and Italian, geography, history and literature. She could play the piano much more than competently, sing due to the tutelage of Madame D’Arpe, dance because of Monsieur Lonville, and ride as well as any woman living, she was certain, despite an effort to remain humble. She was also very aware that women were beginning to take their places in many previously forbidden arenas; helping to form society and, indeed, the world. She was going to make her mark on the world. Somehow.

She was also the most guarded orphan in the empire, she was quite sure.

“You’ll not touch that girl—” Shelby began angrily. But he did not finish. The highwayman had cracked the whip he carried, a long and lethal-looking thing that snapped through the air with the sharpness of a shot. The pistol Shelby had reached for went flying through the air as he cried out, not so much in pain as in surprise.

“My dear fellow,” the highwayman said. “We’ve no wish to harm you or the girl. You’ll step down, please.”

Stiff, angry, wary, Shelby did so. Ally heard a soft expulsion of breath, and when she looked, he was no longer standing. He had sunk easily to the ground, as if he had simply been so tired he had gone to sleep standing.

She started to run toward him, crying out in alarm.

She did not reach him. The highwayman caught her by the shoulders. When she kicked and fought and tried to bite him, he swore softly.

“What is the matter with you, girl? You are playing with your life here.”

“What have you done to him?”

“He will awake soon enough, none the worse for wear,” he assured her.

“What did you do to him? You’ve killed him!”

“He isn’t dead, I assure you.”

She tried again to bite the hand that held her. “This is ridiculous,” he hissed, and before she knew it, she was thrown over his shoulder and he was striding quickly off the open road and along a forest trail.

What had she done?

A trickle of fear slipped along her spine, despite her resolve.

“If you think you’re going to slit my throat in the woods, you’ll be truly sorry,” she warned him. “They’ll come after you. You are already wanted for your crimes. They’ll revive public executions—indeed, they’ll bring back drawing and quartering. I’m warning you—”

“You should start begging me,” he warned.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded. “You don’t even know who I am!”

They had apparently reached his destination. She was quickly and unceremoniously set down on a tree stump next to a small stream through the woods. Oddly, the water bubbled melodiously. The sun was almost gone for the day, just disappearing into the horizon, so they were surrounded by pale glimmers through the canopy of the trees and the coming shadows of the night. He set a foot on the log and leaned close to her. “Seriously, lass, I don’t know who you are. Had you answered that question for me at the start, you might well be on your way again already.”

“Don’t call me ‘lass.’”

“I should be calling you an idiot.”

“I? An idiot? Because I protest a wretched criminal who will surely end his days at the end of a rope?”

“If I’m to hang, anyway, what would it matter if I were to add your body to the list of my trespasses?” he demanded.

“You will hang,” she said icily.

“Perhaps, but not today. Today, you will answer to me.”

She fell silent, staring at him, once again forcing down any sense of fear. She would not go easily.

She stared at him, eyes burning, head high. “You are young and able-bodied. You might have found legitimate work easily enough. Instead, you have chosen a life of crime.”

He laughed softly, truly amused now. “Indeed, lass, of all the young women I have encountered, you are definitely the most brazen. Or the most stupid. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I told you not to call me ‘lass.’”

“You are a lass.”

“Then you are nothing but a boy, playing at being a man.”

He seemed to take no offense; indeed, he smiled slightly.

“Have you a title, then?” he inquired.

She stared at him coldly. “You may call me Miss.”

“Miss. So who are you and where are—were—you going?”

“Are you an idiot, that you don’t recognize a carriage belonging to the Earl of Carlyle?”

She couldn’t tell whether he had recognized the carriage or not, for his next question was not an answer.

“What are you doing in his carriage?”

“I haven’t stolen it,” she retorted.

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

He leaned closer. “But it is not the answer I am seeking.”

“I’m ever so sorry.”

“Pray, don’t be sorry—yet. Simply provide me with the information I seek.”

“You are a bully and a thief. I owe you nothing.”

“I am a highwayman. And your life and safekeeping are in my hands.”

“Shoot me, then.”

He shook his head, irritated. She lifted her chin. She was afraid, true, but she was oddly excited, as well. The blood was rushing through her veins. Ridiculous as it might seem, she felt up to the challenge.

Strangely, she didn’t believe he would really harm her. There was something too…decent?…about his manner.

Perhaps this was simply what she had wanted: something had finally happened in her life. She felt as if she were really living, perhaps for the first time. How sad if it were all about to end.

He laughed aloud and the sound was easy and pleasant. “Let me start over. Dear mademoiselle, pray, please, tell me what you’re doing in the earl’s carriage?”

“Obviously I am going to see the earl.”

“Ah. You’re good friends, then?”

“He is something of a godfather to me,” she explained.

“Indeed?”

“Yes, so you had best take care, lest you truly offend me.”

“I’m afraid it matters not at all to me whom I offend.”

“The earl will see you skewered through.”

“The earl will have to catch me for that, don’t you think?”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

“I never would.”

“Pray, tell, exactly what do you want from me? I’m afraid I’m not carrying any riches.”

He was still smiling, and his foot continued to rest on the log as he leaned close. She found herself wondering how such a man, well spoken, well dressed, smelling clean but with a hint of musk and leather, could have come to such a pass in life.

“Riches may be attained in any number of ways. If you’re beloved of the earl, you’re worth a pretty penny.”

“I’m not that well loved,” she said sharply.

His smile deepened. She wished she could see more of his face.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he commanded.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me more about yourself.”

“I asked first.”

“But you already know more about me than I know about you,” she reminded him primly.

“Ah, but I am the highwayman, and you are the victim,” he said.

“Precisely. Victims are not required by any social standard to be cooperative,” she informed him.

He leaned closer. “Victims are supposed to be frightened.”

“Do you know what I think?”

“Pray, tell me.”

“You are not at all dangerous.”

“Really?”

“It appears to me that you have at least a modicum of intelligence, and that someone raised you properly. And that, if you chose, you could certainly do well enough without resorting to highway robbery and accosting random victims.”

“I’m afraid,” he murmured, “that you weren’t a random victim.”

She was startled, and a trickle of fear began to ice her blood.

“I have nothing. Why would you choose me?”

“You were in the earl’s coach.”

“Again, I tell you, I have nothing worth stealing,” she assured him, more determined now than ever that he believe her.

“You might be quite valuable as a hostage,” he informed her.

“Oh!” she cried in frustration. “You are a fool. What is the matter with you? There are grave things going on in the world. We may well find ourselves in a state of anarchy. Men have been murdered. People are in an uproar. And you are worried about nothing but yourself.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm? That’s all you have to say?” she demanded.

“Are you going to challenge all the evil in the world?” he asked her softly.

“Are you willing to do nothing about all the evil in the world?” she countered.

He shrugged. “Let’s see…can I change the world at this moment? Probably not. Can I change my own situation? I think so. Because I have you, whoever you are, a passenger in the Earl of Carlyle’s carriage.”

“Please, I have already informed you, I am not worth anything.”

“Come, come. You cannot be that naïve. Not a woman of your obvious…worldliness.”

She flushed, looking away. She felt as if fire were rushing through her. How could she be so ridiculous as to feel such a tide of emotion because of a highwayman? Good God, how pathetic. She would not allow it.

“I’m telling you, whatever you may wish to think, there is no threat you can make that will change me into a rich swan. I live in the company of several widows, gentle and kind and sheltered. They have little. I seldom leave the woods.”

“But when you do, it seems, you leave in style.”

“I am lucky to have landed friends who took interest in me as a child.”

“Do you work for the earl?”

“No.”

“Do you…?” He looked her up and down meaningfully.

“What are you implying?” she demanded indignantly, so angry that she rose, pushing him aside. “The lord’s lady is one of the kindest and most beautiful women I have ever met, and I do assure you, he feels the same. How dare you…? Ah, you are but a highwayman, and anything of gentility I’ve sensed in you is nothing but a mask, far more concealing than the one upon your face. I believe I’ve quite finished with this ridiculous tête-à-tête, and I would sincerely appreciate it if you would return me to the carriage now.”

At first she was afraid he would respond with violence—she had shoved him hard enough to send him reeling backward. For a moment she stood still, very still, regretting her action and wondering, as well, if she dared to run. She was unfamiliar with her surroundings, but running anywhere would have to be preferable to being his prisoner.

But he didn’t respond with violence; he didn’t even touch her. Laughing, he took a seat upon the fallen log himself.

“Bravo!”

“Bravo?”

“The earl is a lucky man to have such a staunch defender.”

“The earl is known for his strength, ethics and honesty, something you would know and appreciate—if you weren’t a rogue.”

“Ah, that I were only such a man.”

“Any man might strive to initiate his attributes.”

“Might any man have such a castle?” he asked with amusement.

“A castle does not make a man,” she told him primly.

“Nor riches?” he inquired.

She wasn’t sure what it was in his tone—a certain bitterness perhaps—but it suddenly made her realize that she might well be in serious peril after all.

She had managed to put some distance between them when she had pushed by him, and now that he was seated, cocky, comfortable, quite certain he was the one in charge, it seemed like the right time to run.

There were many advantages to growing up in a cottage in the woods. She had spent endless days exploring the trails close to her house, playing with imaginary friends, running from place to place. She had often played with the children of the woodsman down the lane, and there had been a time when she was young when the son thought she was quite a hellion. So she was strong, fit and fleet. She thought that she could leave him in the dust.

At first, she did.

Heedless of the water, she bounded across the little rivulet and tore down one of the forest trails. There was a moment when she dared to take pleasure in the sound of his startled oath as she disappeared.

Then she realized not only that she was being followed but followed swiftly.

She tore under a canopy of trees, dexterously flying over roots, rocks and fallen branches in her way. She kept running and running, following what appeared to be a path, then turning to crash through thicker foliage, hoping to lose her pursuer.

As she ran, the sound of pursuit diminished. Or perhaps it was the thundering of her heart that made all else silent in comparison.

Eventually, she had to stop. Her lungs were burning, her heart pounding in revolt, and her calves cramping. Her delicate boots were far from the perfect footwear for running through the forest.

She gripped a tree, inhaling, exhaling, trying to ease the pain in her chest and limbs. Her hair had come loose, and a wayward strand now teased her nose. She puffed at it, then drew it back, thinking she must look an incredible mess, and yet, at the same time, realizing with pride that she had done it.

She had eluded the highwayman.

Just as that pleasure began to sink in, she heard a soft chuckle.

She spun around.

He was leaning against a tree, arms crossed, as relaxed as if he had not a care in the world. Not a strand of hair had escaped his queue. He wasn’t breathing hard. He didn’t appear as if he had exerted himself at all.

She straightened, staring at him defiantly.

“You can’t escape, you know.”

“Actually, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

She considered her position. Yes, she could run again. But how had he done it? Caught her in this place so easily?

Her heart sank as she realized her mistake. She had been so determined not to follow a clear trail that she had run in circles. He had realized her error and simply waited until she had come around through the trees.

She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“Don’t do it. Such a waste of time and energy,” he told her.

“I’m so sorry. Am I being inconvenient?” she asked sarcastically.

He shrugged. “Actually, I had no other pressing engagements for the day.”

“You do realize that when the Earl of Carlyle realizes his carriage hasn’t arrived, he’ll begin searching?”

“Certainly…but not for a while yet, I don’t believe.”

“And why is that?”

“I suspect he’s in the city. There’s a celebration at Buckingham Palace today. Someone’s birthday. I don’t think he’ll be home until the evening.”

“You know so much about the Earl of Carlyle?” she asked, playing for time. She needed to catch her breath. She was certainly not going to tell him that he was mistaken as to the earl’s whereabouts.

“I read the newspapers, Miss…ah, yes, that’s right. You’ve not yet furnished me with your name.”

“I don’t remember you furnishing me with yours.”

“You don’t really want to know my name. That would make you dangerous to me, wouldn’t it?”

“Then I shan’t give you mine.”

He smiled. “Caught your breath yet?”

“I’m quite fine, thank you.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Run again.”

“What else would you have me do?”

“I’ve told you that I don’t intend to hurt you.”

“And I should trust you?”

“If you run, I’ll merely have to catch you again.”

“But perhaps you cannot.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I can. And you won’t like it when I do.”

“I don’t like being told what to do, I don’t like being held up, and I most certainly don’t like conversing with a bandit.”

He lifted his hands in a fatalistic gesture. “You must do what you must. And I must do the same.”

She lifted her chin again, trying to bring some semblance of order to the streams of tangled blond hair now falling down her back and into her face, impairing her vision. “You could abandon your life of crime. Walk away now. Become a legend. Find gainful employment. Turn over a new leaf.”

“I could….”

“Then you must do so,” she insisted urgently.

“I’m sorry. I think not.”

“Oh…” She let out a sigh of irritation. She saw his muscles beginning to tense, realized that in seconds he would be coming for her.

And so, with little other recourse, she ran again.

This time he caught her quickly.

She felt him behind her before he touched her. Felt the wind, the heat and the power of him.

Then his arms were around her.

The momentum of her desperate flight carried them both forward and down, onto the ground, into the dirt and pine-needle carpet of the forest floor. Her mouth seemed to fill with pine needles and the rich earth. Coughing, sputtering, she tried to turn, but he was on top of her. She managed to get faceup, but no further. He straddled her, still breathing easily and, the greatest insult, still merely amused.

She coughed, staring at him furiously. A greater fear seeped into her, for now she was truly caught.

She didn’t try to argue with him; didn’t urge him to get up. She simply slammed her fists against his chest with the greatest strength she could summon, twisting frantically at the same time. That managed only to bring forth his own temper at last. He caught her wrists and pinned them high above her head, leaning close as he did so.

His amused smile was gone at last, she was pleased to note.

Yet in that small victory, she realized, she herself was even more the loser.

“Would you stop?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer him, only lay perfectly still, looking to one side.

He eased up, still straddling her but no longer pinning her so tightly to the ground.

“I told you that you wouldn’t like it if I had to catch you,” he said softly.

“You truly are a cad,” she whispered.

“I’m a highwayman,” he said impatiently. “Hardly a proper escort.”

She became aware of his touch, the pressure of his thighs, the way he sat atop her without causing her pain.

Then he touched her.

He reached down, sweeping a wild strand of her hair from her face. His fingers seemed to linger ever so slightly on her cheek.

The touch was gentle, yet he had seized her with real power and did not intend to let up.

She didn’t look at him. “What now?” she demanded. “Where do we go from here?”

“You tell me your name and purpose, all I have wanted from the beginning,” he said.

She stared at him suddenly, brows knitting in a frown, fear seeping deeply into her again. She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she could not.

“You’re not…one of the anti-monarchists?” she breathed.

She was startled when he smiled, his knuckles brushing her chin with an almost tender assurance.

“No, I’m not. God save the queen. I’m a good, traditional English rogue,” he swore softly.

She believed him. Flat on her back, totally his prisoner, completely at his mercy, she believed him. She let out a soft breath.

“And you’ve no intention of killing me…or anyone?”

“Never, lass.”

“Please stop calling me ‘lass.’”

“You won’t give me your name.”

She stared hard at him. Their position was intimate, and the thought brought a swift flush to her cheeks. He was a complete blackguard, and she loathed herself for thinking his voice was husky, alluring, his touch the most tender she had ever known.

“If you would be so kind as to get off me…?” she suggested.

He rose and reached a hand down to her, lifting her to her feet with no effort. His hand lingered, then dropped from hers.

“My name is Alexandra Grayson.”

“What?” he demanded sharply, frowning with such quick tension that she was momentarily taken aback, frightened once again.

Why?

There was nothing about her name, or herself, that should mean anything to anyone.

“I’m Alexandra Grayson, a nobody, I assure you. I have told you. I live in a cottage in the woods with several aunts. The Earl of Carlyle and his lady are like godparents to me. They, and others, have seen to my welfare for as long as I can remember.”

“You—you are Alexandra Grayson?” He still sounded as if he were choking.

“What does my name mean to you?” she demanded uneasily, afraid that he had lost his sanity. His hands had tightened into fists at his sides.

He shook his head, easing his hands open. A second later, he was smiling again, amused once more.

“Nothing…it means nothing to me.”

“Then—”

“I had thought you were someone else.”

He was lying, she thought.

But she had no time to ponder his reasons, for he reached out a hand to her. She stared at it, swallowing hard, uneasy. He was very tall and strong in the green darkness of the forest. She felt the vibrancy and fire of him, though he was still. She had the strangest feeling that if she moved, leaned against him…

It would be good…sweet. Exciting.

So alive.

She stiffened, lowering her head, clenching her teeth. He was nothing but a common criminal!

She looked up. He was still staring intently at her.

“Come,” he said at last. “I’ll take you back to the carriage and send you on your way.”