The Lesson Plan

by Jackie Barbosa

  With the golden-orange tinge of sunset fading into the blue glow of dusk, however, his first order of business was not to frighten her, but to get them both to the shelter of the abandoned woodcutter’s cottage they’d be occupying for the night. Conrad was debating the relative merits of dragging her there on foot or hoisting her over his shoulder and carrying her when she sighed gustily. He opened his eyes to find her smiling up at him, a thoroughly disconcerting and unexpected reaction given the circumstances.

  “Good heavens, I thought they’d never leave,” she said.

  Then, to his horrified delight, she snaked her free arm around his neck, pulled his head down to hers, and kissed him. Soundly. Ardently. And to be quite honest, very, very badly. And he had never been more thoroughly aroused by a mere kiss in his life.

  Bloody well dangerous was right.

  4

  For the fulfillment of a lifelong aspiration, kissing Conrad Pearce was not quite the earth-shaking, life-altering experience Freddie had anticipated. Oh, she couldn’t say it was bad, precisely. He certainly tasted pleasant enough—delicious even, like a lemon syllabub, she fancied, with a hint of mint—and there was nothing at all wrong with the press of his firm, muscular body against hers.

  No, the trouble was that the kissing part was rather awkward. The first problem to be reckoned with was her nose…and his…and how to keep the two from bumping into each other. The second and considerably more dangerous hindrance was the way their teeth knocked together as she ground her lips fiercely into his. At this rate, she feared she might cut her lip or, worse, chip a tooth.

  And of course, the foul man was doing nothing whatsoever to assist or encourage her efforts. He probably knew exactly what to do with noses and teeth at times like this, but instead of demonstrating the proper technique, he simply stood there, stiff as a block of wood, unmoving and unmoved.

  Like always.

  It was decidedly discouraging. Perhaps there wasn’t a wild, kindred spirit hiding beneath that composed exterior, after all. Perhaps he truly was as dispassionate and imperturbable as he appeared. How…disappointing.

  She was on the verge of abandoning the experiment altogether when he made a low, strangled noise at the back of his throat. Before she could make the remotest sense of what that sound might mean, he had released her wrist, wrapped both his arms around her waist, and was kissing her back.

  Soundly. Ardently. And very, very skillfully.

  Instead of mashing his lips directly onto hers—her own, untutored technique—he tipped his head to one side so that their mouths met on an angle, preventing further nose collisions. And though his kiss was every bit as passionate as hers had been, he communicated his fervor with lips that were soft but unyielding, gentle yet demanding.

  Joy and triumph made her giddy. He did want her. He would never be able to deny it now. Not when his mouth plundered hers with such undisguised hunger. Not when he groaned as she parted her lips beneath his and met his exploring tongue with tentative sorties of her own. And certainly not when the ridge of his erection nudged her abdomen, as thick and hard as the barrel of the pistol he pressed against the small of her back.

  This was how she’d imagined it would be to kiss Conrad Pearce—sweet, scorching, sublime. What it was not was satisfying. To the contrary, the longer the kiss went on, the more needful and desperate she became.

  She couldn’t get close enough to him. Couldn’t taste him enough, couldn’t touch him enough. Her skin felt too tight, her breasts were achy and tingling, and the delicate flesh between her legs grew swollen and damp. She had always imagined that kissing was an end to itself, an act to be enjoyed purely on its own merits; now she understood it was simply a prelude. And more importantly, why gentlemen didn’t kiss respectable young ladies unless they intended to marry them.

  Because she knew where this was leading. Even a sheltered, well-bred girl couldn’t grow up in Lancashire, surrounded by sheep and sheepdogs, without gaining a rudimentary grasp of the mechanics of mating, and Freddie had been neither sheltered nor particularly well-bred. She’d simply never considered the possibility that kissing—which neither sheep nor sheepdogs did, after all—would make her want more. Much, much more.

  But it did. The idea of Conrad bending her over, thrusting that utterly male part of his anatomy inside of her was strangely appealing. Thrilling, even. The mere thought of being so completely at his mercy, of being impaled and possessed by him, made her heart beat like thunder. The sound was so deafening, it seemed to come not from inside her, but outside, like horses bearing down on her at tremendous speed. Even the earth beneath her feet shook.

  Without warning, Conrad wrenched his mouth from hers. Freddie released a frustrated sigh at the abrupt and unexpected loss.

  “Bloody hell,” he cursed, this time giving no thought to disguising his voice behind the broad accent he’d feigned earlier. He squinted down the road in the direction of Garstang.

  Her frustration evaporated. There really were horses bearing down on them at tremendous speed. The coach must have made a wide enough point in the road to turn around and was now headed back to Barrowcreek Park at a breakneck pace. Although she could not yet see the carriage, thanks to the small bend in the road a hundred yards or so distant, she could unquestionably hear and feel its approach.

  In seconds, they would be caught and her one chance to make Conrad Pearce see that they were meant for each other would be lost.

  Fortunately, Conrad seemed to be thinking the same thing. Well, perhaps not about being meant for each other, but about being caught.

  “Move. Now,” he ordered, yanking her in the direction of the trees.

  The horses came into view just as Conrad and Freddie reached the edge of the road. She squeaked with surprise as he all but threw her to the ground and then rolled her through the twigs and sticks that littered the forest floor into a small depression a few feet away.

  They came to rest there, her on top, in the most intimate of embraces. He might as well have been naked, for she could feel every sinewy muscle of his body in this position. The sensation made her squirm, and she lifted her head to look down at him, wondering if he was as affected as she.

  His hand closed around the back of her head to prevent her from raising it further. “For the love of God, keep your head down and stop wriggling about.”

  She grinned at the strained edge of his voice, for although it might have been due to irritation and not arousal, the stiff shaft prodding her belly argued otherwise. Still, she did as he bid. Any movement might make them visible.

  The coach thundered past without stopping. Conrad exhaled sharply, and she realized he’d been holding his breath.

  Several minutes passed before he allowed her to move. When he did, it was unfortunately not to pick up where they’d left off, but to push her off him, rise to his feet, and pull her rather unceremoniously to hers. After brushing the detritus from his clothing while she did the same, he took her by the hand and led her further into the trees.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shelter.” He didn’t look at her as he said the word, and she noted he was making an effort to disguise his voice again. But why? Did he really think she didn’t know who he was? That she would have kissed a complete stranger, to say nothing of a complete stranger who also happened to be a criminal?

  Well, perhaps he did. It wasn’t as if everyone didn’t expect Winifred Langston to do the unexpected, not to mention the outrageous. If anyone would kiss a ruthless highwayman who’d just kidnapped her, she supposed it would be her. Or at least, Conrad Pearce might well believe that.

  She had known, of course, that the highwayman was Conrad from the moment he’d poked that ridiculously oversized pistol into the coach. All right, to be fair, she hadn’t known then, but she had suspected. Although he’d done a more than credible job of disguising his voice, and the mask obscured his features quite adequately, his build and bearing had seemed immediately familiar to her. She’d spent ye
ars studying him, after all; she ought to recognize him anywhere.

  Still, she hadn’t truly been sure until he’d yanked her from the carriage and she’d landed against him. Then she’d known. Another man might share his size, his shape, even his posture, but no other man could have his smell—a combination of cloves and bergamot with a rich, buttery undertone that was his and his alone. At that moment, she’d made up her mind to go along with it, to pretend she didn’t know who was kidnapping her and why.

  Nash had undoubtedly devised the entire scheme with the intention of frightening her into behaving in a more ladylike manner. Which was, of course, absurd. It was a demonstrable fact that wearing gowns and sewing samplers didn’t make one any less likely to be attacked by brigands. But she had learned long ago that men rarely thought logically when it came to persuading women, primarily because they mistakenly believed women were illogical. Like most women, however, Freddie was perfectly capable of logic, and that capacity compelled her to thoroughly consider her next course of action.

  As she trudged alongside Conrad toward whatever shelter he had devised for them, she debated the relative merits of admitting that she had recognized him at the outset versus continuing to pretend she had no idea who he was. On the one hand, she hated allowing him to believe she would have kissed him if he were anyone but…well, him. On the other, however, if he knew she was aware of what he and her brother were up to, he might reasonably conclude there was no point in keeping her through the night. He would take her back to Barrowcreek tonight, and that would be the end of it. Her one opportunity would be just as squandered as if they’d been caught on the road in a torrid embrace by Walter and Thomas.

  In point of fact, she could think of no scenario in which telling the truth would be to her advantage. Moreover, if it ever became to her advantage, she could always confess then.

  Her mind made up, her step lightened. As she picked her way through the thick undergrowth, working hard to keep up with Conrad’s longer stride, she almost laughed as she tried to imagine making the same trek as a properly be-gowned and be-slippered young lady. She’d have long ago snagged her skirts to rags and worn through the soles of her shoes. Really, if a woman were to be kidnapped by brigands, she would be wise to wear breeches and a sensible pair of boots for the occasion.

  The forest suddenly opened into a clearing in the center of which stood a small, weathered stone cottage. The door had once been a dark shade of green, but the paint was now mostly peeled away, revealing the gnarled oak surface beneath. It hung at a slightly odd angle, and the only visible window was boarded over. Given the size of the saplings that grew up hither and thither, the cottage hadn’t been inhabited in years. The newly thatched roof and a stack of freshly split firewood near the door—enough for one night—were the only evidence of recent occupation. That, and the thin wisp of smoke curling from the whitewashed chimney.

  It was all rather…quaint. Some might even say romantic.

  Freddie cast a sidelong glance at Conrad. “This is our shelter for the night?” she asked dubiously.

  Although his expression was unreadable beneath the mask, she knew he mistook the reason for her incredulity when he answered, “Not quite the luxury accommodations yer used to, but I reckon ye’ll survive one night.”

  She opened her mouth to say that she thought it looked quite luxurious indeed under the circumstances, but then quickly clamped down on the thought. The last thing she wanted to do was give him any reason to suspect she might be onto the game. Certainly, she should not point out that if his goal was to convince her she was in grave peril, he’d have done better to choose a place that seemed a bit more threatening to spend the night.

  Once he let her inside and closed the door behind them, however, she was forced to revise her opinion. The single room was dimly illuminated by the glow of the dying fire and two lamps, one of which sat atop a rickety wooden table framed by two equally rickety wooden chairs. The other lamp sat in the far corner on an inverted wooden crate next to the only other piece of furniture—although it was stretching the definition of the word to call a mattress piled with blankets furniture.

  One mattress, not two. Which could only mean he did not intend for both of them to sleep on a mattress. And she had a strong suspicion she knew which of them would be afforded that luxury.

  Her gaze darted back to the table, and apprehension curled in her stomach as she realized that what she’d initially taken for a crumpled linen cloth was in fact a sturdy-looking length of rope.

  As if reading the direction of her thoughts, Conrad gestured toward one of the chairs. “Sit.”

  Her stomach churned in earnest now. It seemed the time to tell the truth had come already. She could scarcely seduce him if she were tied to a chair. And although the seduction would be just as thwarted by the truth, she would prefer—all things being equal—not to spend the night in such an uncomfortable position. If all was lost, she would prefer to mourn her defeat in the comfort of her own bed.

  Still, she hesitated. There must be something she could do to prevent this from being the end of everything.

  “Sit,” he repeated, impatience threading his voice with steel. As he spoke, he reached for the rope, making no secret of his design.

  Did he really think she would give in so easily? Without a fight? Perhaps he did, given that she had cooperated so readily with the kidnapping, but he didn’t know her nearly as well as she had always imagined if he thought she’d permit anyone to tie her up without a fight. Not even a real highwayman.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “No.”

  “Sit in the chair, Miss Langston. Now.” The words were both soft and menacing.

  She’d never heard him speak with such deadly calm, and it sent a shiver down her spine that was half apprehension, half anticipation. She cursed the mask that obscured his features and expression. Without them, she was operating purely on instinct. If she was wrong, if she misread the signs that told her he was fighting not anger or annoyance but desire, she would regret forever what she was about to do.

  Then again, when had Freddie Langston ever allowed the possibility of regret or consequences to interfere with her decisions? The answer, of course, was never—or practically never, at any rate—and this was hardly the time to start.

  Licking her suddenly parched lips, she dove into these uncharted waters head first. “Make me.”

  He took a step toward her, the rope dangling from the fingers of his left hand. “Make you? With pleasure.”

  5

  In some murky, rational corner of his mind, Conrad knew he shouldn’t take the bait any more than he should have participated in that kiss she’d so enthusiastically pressed on him. Or, more accurately, on the man she believed was her kidnapper, for he had yet to see any evidence that she recognized him.

  He could think of no reason she would not have called his bluff by now if she knew. Freddie Langston seldom passed on an opportunity to make a mockery of the males in her life, and she would find nothing more amusing than calling him out on this absurd charade if she had unmasked it. Not to mention, he was the last man on earth she would kiss on purpose; she had made it apparent on more than one occasion that she found him stiff and stuffy and self-righteous.

  Stiff wasn’t half wrong, he thought with a mental grimace.

  That was the worst part, wasn’t it? Even believing he was a highwayman who had kidnapped her for ransom, Freddie Langston was still trying to work her wiles on him. She had never met a man she couldn’t bend to her will, and had yet to be shown there might be one out there who wouldn’t crumble like a tea cake in the face of her machinations.

  Nash had been right about one thing: for the sake of her own safety, his sister needed to learn that sometimes the safest and best thing to do was to obey.

  He advanced. She backed away. He reached for her wrist and grabbed air. From the opposite side of the table, she threw him a saucy grin. Since chasing her with the table between them would be pointl
ess, he picked it up, lantern and all, and set it to one side. At that maneuver, her eyes widened with what might be genuine alarm.

  There was no place for her to go but past him, for only a few feet of floor space separated them from the fireplace. Confident of claiming his prize, he stood perfectly still before pouncing…only to trip over the chair she toppled in front of him as she sprinted past him toward the other side of the room.

  If he had been less irritated—and less bruised—by her trick, he might have made more of the fact that she did not head for the door. Instead, he disentangled himself from the chair, righted it, and glared at her.

  And rather wished he hadn’t.

  Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was beginning, as it always did, to escape the confines of her cap. Black, wispy tendrils clung to her forehead and curled along her jaw line. His fingers vibrated with the need to brush those curls aside and replace them with his lips. He wanted to wrench the fool cap from her head and release the rest of those dark, heavy tresses. Most of all, he ached to strip the mannish attire from her body and take her right there on the mattress, without pretense or decency, until he quenched his depraved desire to have her.

  No matter how hard Freddie Langston tried to look like a boy—and even tried to be named like a boy—she was a lady. Not to mention a virgin. And virginal ladies must be wedded, then bedded, not the reverse. Moreover, they must be bedded gently and sweetly, preferably with their shifts bunched up around their waists while they lay beneath the covers, enduring and thinking of England. A man satisfied his need for earthier pleasures with a courtesan or his mistress, not his wife.

  Besides, Conrad’s purpose here was to discipline her, not debauch her. And thus far, judging by her expression, he was making a shambles of it.

  Standing with her legs slightly apart and her hands resting on her hips, she met his gaze steadily, her dark eyes glittering with triumph. She thought she’d beaten him. That he would simply fold up his tent and give up without a fight because she’d managed to escape him once. Which was exactly why it was imperative for him not only to persevere, but to win. To demonstrate to her, once and for all, that she couldn’t best every man in the world with a bit of trickery and surfeit of confidence.