by Lucy Ashford
‘I’ve probably caught a cold already,’ said Beau. ‘And if I die of pneumonia, I hope you realise it will be the gallows for you and your partners in crime.’
She’d moved back a little, he sensed, but not because she was afraid, oh, no; in fact, he even heard her emit a husky chuckle. ‘Pneumonia? An exaggeration, surely, Mr Beaumaris. As a matter of fact...’
He could just imagine her gazing down at him thoughtfully.
‘I don’t think,’ she concluded, ‘that I’ve ever seen anyone who looked as healthy a specimen as you. Now, if you want me to cut these ropes, you really must swear not to set the law on my friends.’
The silence that followed was deafening. ‘Mr Beaumaris? It really could be very uncomfortable for you out here in the forest. And I have a dreadful feeling that it’s going to start raining again, any minute—’
‘I swear!’
‘You swear what, Mr Beaumaris?’
‘I swear,’ Beau pronounced through gritted teeth, ‘that I’ll not set the law on your friends.’
He thought he heard her emit a satisfied little sigh. ‘And you’ll promise not to pursue them?’
‘I’ll not—’ he clenched his bound fists ‘—pursue them. Where are they, by the way? I haven’t heard their dulcet tones for a while.’
‘And you won’t hear them again,’ she said airily, ‘for they’ve gone, but where to is no concern of yours. Now that you’ve promised not to pursue us, you’ll soon see that everything will be quite all right.’
Moments later she was sawing at the ropes at his wrists—carefully, he hoped—with a small, ebony-handled knife. He knew, because the blindfold that they’d used on him—his own silk neckerchief, for God’s sake!—had worked loose, so that if he turned his head at a certain angle, he could see her. And as it happened, Beau’s first view of her gave rise to a rather unsettling kick of interest.
She was young, as he’d expected. But she wasn’t dressed as most miscreant wenches would be, in a flouncy cheap gown with colourful petticoats and a bodice designed to display her feminine charms. Instead she wore close-cut breeches and a loose linen shirt, on top of which was a raggedy short jacket with leather patches over the elbows. A red-spotted neckerchief was tied around her neck, and all in all, any outfit less likely to emphasise her femininity, he couldn’t imagine. Yet somehow—somehow...
It was her face that really astonished him. It was heart-shaped, dominated by huge eyes that were almost golden, and was given added piquancy by a pert nose, a determined little chin and a cloud of curly chestnut hair.
She was surprisingly, unusually attractive. She spoke well. She’d sounded almost apologetic about his ordeal. Then his thoughts stopped, because all of a sudden, the rope round his wrists parted and the girl sat back on her heels, pushing her vibrant curls from her face. Now what? Beau flexed his hands and adjusted his position in order to keep her within his narrow field of vision. She was a little scoundrel, with her rebellious rain-damp curls and smears of dirt on her cheeks. She and her companions were highway thieves, no doubt about it.
So how could Beau possibly imagine that he’d seen the same girl in the not so distant past, adorned with jewels and wearing the finest of ballgowns? How could he think for one minute that he had actually met her, in the salons of London’s elite?
That fall from his horse must have shaken his brains more than he’d realised. Keep your wits about you, you fool. He realised that she’d positioned herself to kneel by his feet now, and was starting to hack through the ropes that bound his booted legs. Slowly he reached for his blindfold.
She turned to him calmly. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Remove it if you must.’
She went back to her sawing, while Beau eased the silk neckcloth from his eyes. He was astonished that she was going to let him see her in full. Surely the wench was afraid that he would be able to describe her to the constables? But then he realised that she’d already anticipated his inspection by pulling up her own spotted neckerchief to cover the lower part of her face, though she couldn’t hide her eyes—and what eyes, he marvelled again. Lambent gold and dark-lashed, they almost matched the colour of her gleaming gold and copper curls.
‘That’s it,’ she announced. She rose to her feet, at the same time slipping the knife into a sheath on her belt. ‘You’re free now, Mr Beaumaris, but I most sincerely hope you’re fully aware that my men have your horse, and that your situation is still precarious in the extreme...’
Her voice trailed away, as Beau drew himself to his full height while at the same time delving into an inner pocket of his coat—in order to pull out a small but lethal pistol, which he cocked and pointed straight at her heart.
‘I rather think,’ said Beau softly, ‘that you’re the one who needs to understand that your situation is precarious—Miss Deb. Give me that knife of yours. Now.’
Chapter Three
Oh, no. He was formidable, Deb realised, and not just because of his pistol. Everything about him—his pride, his height and his muscle power—shouted danger, as he stood looking down at her with the clearest, most captivating male blue eyes she had ever seen. And those eyes were full of pure scorn, as he pointed that lethal-looking pistol at her heart.
Deb’s pulse bumped sickeningly. Why, oh, why hadn’t Luke and Francis searched him? But they weren’t the only ones to blame. She should have noticed the pistol’s bulk when she pulled out his watch; she should have gone through everything he carried, except that it felt like a gross insult to his privacy...
More of an insult to him than taking him prisoner, you mean? ‘Well,’ Deb said, tilting her chin so she could meet his hard gaze. ‘So much for your oath to let us go.’
A slow smile curved his arrogant mouth. ‘Your memory is failing you somewhat. I did indeed swear not to set the law on your friends, but you forgot something rather important. You see, you didn’t include yourself in the bargain.’
Deb stood very, very still. She concentrated on meeting his gaze without flinching. Don’t let him see you’re afraid. You must never let an enemy see you’re afraid...
‘Trickery with words,’ she scoffed. ‘Usually the last resort of a man who knows he’s in the wrong.’
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about who’s in the wrong here. Empty your pockets.’
‘I don’t see why I need to—’
‘I said, empty your pockets—Deborah.’
Deb breathed hard and deep. ‘Why? Unlike you, I don’t carry a gun. If I did, I assure you you’d have seen it by now.’
‘No doubt,’ he retorted calmly. ‘Nevertheless, I want you to empty your pockets. You see, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’d been off on a thieving jaunt of your own while your friends were busy setting their trap for me.’ Mr Beaumaris nodded curtly at her little jacket. ‘What have you got in your pockets? I can see something. Stolen trinkets? Silver?’
Deb fought sheer panic. ‘I’ve just got some old books, that’s all. And I can’t imagine you’ll be in the least bit interested in them...’
‘Let me see them.’
‘What? No, they’re nothing of value, really...’
Her voice trailed away as he took two steps towards her—my, he was tall, he was big—and jerked that wretched pistol towards her head.
With his free hand, Mr Beaumaris began to explore her pockets. His cool blue eyes never once left her face, and she couldn’t help but marvel at the man. He’d been subjected to a dangerous fall from a speedy mount. He’d lain stunned and trussed up on the cold ground—and yet he could still have walked into a Whitehall club and not looked an inch out of place.
He could also, she thought rather wildly, have walked into a crowded ballroom and had every woman there falling at his feet. Handsome wasn’t an adequate word for him. She’d spent a large part of her life in the theatrical world of f
antasy, and Mr Damian Beaumaris, if he weren’t so unpleasant, surely resembled every woman’s dream of a hero. But at that exact moment, her rambling thoughts stilled into an awful realisation of doom as he pulled out the first of Hugh Palfreyman’s books.
‘Take it.’ He shoved the book towards her.
She took the little volume without a word. He drew out the next one, and the next, handing them to her until she was holding all three.
‘Old books,’ he said softly, echoing her very words. ‘Now, you’ve already assured me that you’re not a thief. So what precisely is your occupation—Deborah?’
She stared up at him defiantly. ‘My friends and I put on—entertainments.’
‘Entertainments.’ He repeated the word almost with relish. ‘Well, I can only assume that these books are part of them, since you carry them with you all the time. Show them to me, will you?’
‘Oh, I assure you, you’ll find them very dull—’
‘Will I? Let’s see,’ he interrupted. ‘Open the top one—yes, that’s right—and let me judge for myself.’
He’d lifted his pistol so close to her face that she could almost smell the cold, deadly metal. Slowly she opened the first book. Please, let it be all writing. Please don’t let it be one of those dreadful pictures...
She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. She’d opened it, as luck would have it, at the most lurid illustration she had yet seen.
‘Turn the pages,’ he ordered.
She did, one by one, feeling his contemptuous blue eyes burning into her.
‘Part of the equipment of your trade, I assume?’ he said at last. ‘Intended, no doubt, to arouse the interest of any prospective client who might find your feminine charms rather less than—overwhelming, should I put it?’
‘No! I—’
He gestured with his pistol. ‘Show me the next book. Now.’
Deb felt her cheeks burn. Bastard. Bastard, to do this to me. She turned the pages of the second slim volume, hoping it might be marginally less shocking than the first—but it wasn’t. Oh, heavens. What on earth were those two in the picture doing? Yes. She saw exactly what they were doing. And so did Mr Beaumaris.
He regarded her with cool appraisal. ‘You don’t look like a whore,’ he said.
Oh, what would she give to insult him in equal measure? Her skin tingled with fury. But right at this minute, it was her absolute priority to keep this abominable man unaware of the fact that she had just robbed Hugh Palfreyman’s abode, so she gazed up at her captor and smiled sweetly. ‘Such things are a matter of taste, sir, as I’m sure you’re aware. And some men prefer to—vary their choice from time to time.’
His eyes glittered—blue, dangerous eyes—and they were so transfixing that she couldn’t tell whether he was amused or madly angry at her gibe. ‘Men might vary their choice of women, yes. But you look more like a boy,’ he said, quite calmly.
She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard that’s what some gentlemen prefer.’
‘You think so? Not me.’ He briefly took his eyes from her as he checked his pistol and eased it back into his pocket. ‘I can, of course, have the gun out again no time at all if you try to run. But now—tell me your favourite.’
‘What?’ Deb’s heart hammered.
‘Tell me which illustration is your favourite.’ His brows tilted wickedly. ‘Since you must know the contents of these books rather well.’
Oh, heavens. ‘Well, of course,’ she said, ‘it all depends on what mood I’m in.’
‘And what kind of mood are you in?’ he asked in an interested way.
I just wish I had that damned pistol of yours in my hand, she muttered under her breath. ‘Of course, I always endeavour to match my clients’ inclinations rather than my own,’ she responded sweetly. ‘But my time costs money, Mr Beaumaris.’
‘And I’m not usually in the habit of paying,’ he replied smoothly, ‘least of all for a travelling slut—’
He broke off when she flung out her hand to slap his cheek. Which was more than foolish of her, because before she’d time to reach her target, Beau had knocked aside her raised hand, cupped her chin and tipped her face up to his, while his hard blue eyes scoured her. He felt her go very still as he let his fingertips slowly caress the warm silken skin of her cheek. She was so like—so very like—the other one...
He was aware of the books dropping from her hand, one by one. And the idea—the idea that had been lurking at the back of his mind since he first set eyes on her—took firmer shape.
He said softly, ‘Well, Deborah. How do you fancy a trip to Hardgate Hall—with me?’
He thought he saw a flicker almost of horror cross her face. But then she smiled up at him. She reached to touch his cheek with her fingertip. And gently, almost mischievously, she murmured, ‘So you’ve a notion to take our acquaintance further, have you, sir? But first—why not try me here, for yourself?’
Beau gripped her tight and let his mouth come down on hers. Hard, relentless and demanding.
He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to show her that her charms left him cold. He planned to kiss her briefly, than thrust her away with some icy insult.
But instead it was he who was being taught a lesson—that her kiss was sweet, sweeter than he could have believed possible. He found himself holding her closer, prising her lips apart, forcing his tongue inside her mouth to take sure possession, and he was mystified, because there was something totally unexpected about her. In spite of those outrageous books, she somehow carried the allure of innocence, and at the first touch of her lips desire had hit him like a punch in the stomach, momentarily winding him.
And now her arms were tightly around his waist; her lovely face was lifted expectantly to his and he was unable to resist caressing her lips with his again, feeling arousal thud through his loins as he drew her closer, thinking in wonder, Her kiss is soft and sweet. She’s not like the other one, even though she’s the exact image. Not like her at all...
In almost the very same instant, he heard two sets of footsteps pounding up behind him.
Before he could do a thing, the girl was already plunging her hand into his pocket to snatch out his pistol, and both his arms had been seized from behind.
Her two colleagues had returned.
You fool, he told himself bitterly. You stupid fool. To fall for her tricks...
The girl had retreated a few yards, but was pointing the gun at him steadily. ‘Best not to struggle, Mr Beaumaris,’ she called out. ‘I’m not altogether sure that I won’t fire this fine pistol of yours by mistake, you see.’
Beau stood there raging as Deb’s friends searched every single one of his pockets. ‘There’s no other weapon,’ they called out to her. Then they started swiftly binding his hands behind his back.
Damn it. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ Beau breathed.
Those were his last words, before he found himself blindfolded—again—and wrestled to the ground. One of them—he guessed it was the younger one, Luke—practically sat on his legs in order to lash some twine around his ankles, and Beau began on a catalogue of prime insults, until the girl said thoughtfully to her colleagues, ‘Oh, dear. You’d better gag him as well.’
So his insults were at an end, more was the pity. But most of all Beau regretted being blindfolded; because if she’d been able to see his eyes, she would have realised that the expression in them was one of pure and utter contempt.
* * *
First round to the Lambeth Players, Deb’s stepfather, Gerald O’Hara, would have said. But Deb didn’t feel the slightest sense of triumph. That kiss. Oh, that kiss. It was with only the greatest difficulty that she managed to keep her voice calm as she guided Luke and Francis away from their captive. ‘Well done, both of you,’ she said, ‘for timing your rescue to perfection.’
Francis look
ed stunned. ‘He had a gun. And he was molesting you. Kissing you. As far as I’m concerned that decides it. We’ll leave him here.’ Francis picked up his hat, which had fallen off during the struggle. ‘Luke and I spotted some woodcutters at work further along the track. They’re bound to come this way once they’ve finished for the day, and find our fancy gentleman—so let him fume in his bonds for a while. He deserves no pity from us.’
‘And he won’t get it,’ said Deb swiftly. ‘But I’m afraid we have to keep him under guard for a little while longer.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a friend of Palfreyman’s.’
Francis stared; Luke let out a small yelp of horror.
‘That’s right.’ And that’s not the least of it. Our prisoner has seen those awful, awful books, and once he’s set free, he might recount the whole incident to Palfreyman. My plan to save the Players could be wrecked...
‘Mr Beaumaris was actually on his way to Hardgate Hall,’ she went on. ‘And you were right—that is Palfreyman’s bay that he was riding. So you have to keep him a prisoner, I’m afraid, until I receive Palfreyman’s written promise to drop all charges against the Players.’
‘But that’s not till...’
‘I know. Not until tomorrow.’
‘But he’ll need feeding.’ This was Luke speaking. ‘He’ll need somewhere to sleep, Miss Deb. He’ll need—’
‘We can do it if we have to,’ interrupted Francis. ‘But what about you, Deborah?’
‘I’ve got to go back to Oxford, to the Angel, Francis.’ Somehow she managed to sound calm. ‘I’m booked to entertain the inn’s customers for an hour, tomorrow at noon. Don’t you remember?’
