by Amy Sandas
“Come here,” he ordered in a false baritone.
She hesitated, the wariness returning to her features as she looked to her mother and sister who were both now fully occupied with removing their jewelry and handing it to Whitely. Neither of the other ladies noticed she had been singled out. Swinging her gaze back to him, she scanned him from the top of his old-fashioned felt hat past the rough leather gloves he wore and down to the hooves of his borrowed horse, which scuffed the ground nervously. When she lifted her eyes again, they flashed with the kind of curiosity that often led innocents to the wolves.
He wondered if he would have to restate his command when she started toward him bravely, but she was still at least three paces away from him when she stopped again.
He crooked his gloved finger. “Closer.”
There was a subtle flicker of fear in her gaze then, and he wondered if she might be more frightened than she let on. She tipped her head, hiding her face within the shadows of her hood, and came forward the remaining steps to his side.
“What riches do you hide beneath your cloak?” he asked, recalling the fact that he was supposed to be a highway thief.
“Nothing of value.”
Was that a note of pert defiance in her voice? He wouldn’t doubt it.
“Hmm,” he said as he started to feel himself sliding into the role he played. There was something seductively liberating about acting the part of a masked criminal. He leaned forward in his saddle and reached to boldly push the hood back from her face.
Moonlight fell against the creamy texture of her skin and kissed her full lips. She tipped her chin to gaze up at him. As he looked into eyes darkened with feminine mystery, he felt a sensual kick to his gut.
To distract from his physical reaction, he flicked his finger against the earbob dangling from her ear. “What are these?” he queried gruffly, carefully keeping his voice in lowered tones to aid his disguise.
“Naught but paste,” came her flippant reply.
He slid his finger down the side of her throat to hook beneath the strand of pearls gleaming against her neck. He thought he saw her pulse jump, but the lighting was imperfect. “And these?”
Her gaze didn’t break from his. “Paste as well, I am afraid.”
He didn’t believe her and felt an unexpected admiration at her audacity to lie, though if he were truly a conscienceless thief, her response would have been foolish and dangerous.
“Have you no valuables to forfeit this night?”
“None that you or any other man would find of particular value.”
Rutherford was torn between amusement at her naiveté and annoyance that she would dare to utter such a leading statement. He was tempted to reprimand her for her boldness or foolishness, whichever the case may be.
He leaned forward and crossed his forearms over his thigh, relaxing into the posture of a man intrigued by the conversation. “You make a dangerous assumption with such a statement.” He gave a careless shrug. “But you have piqued my curiosity. As a man with so little, there is not much I would not find of some value.”
“I have only my thoughts, lord highwayman. And as everyone knows, the thoughts of a woman are worth less than dust.” The sarcasm layering her tone was subtle, but he caught it well enough.
“And if I want them anyway?”
Her smile as she looked up at him was almost coy, and he tightened his fingers on his reins.
“My thoughts cannot be stolen outright, but I am often willing to share.”
He gave an encouraging wave of his hand as he replied with a jaunty lack of concern. “Share away.”
She tipped her head to the side. “I was simply thinking what an odd bunch of thieves you all appear to be.”
Though he smiled, the observation caused the tension riding the back of his neck to tighten perceptively. He shouldn’t encourage her to go on, but he had to know what she had seen. “How so, mistress?”
She turned to indicate Whitely, who had resorted to flattery to ease the ladies into giving up what they obviously seemed to hold quite dear.
“Your friend over there is speaking in false Cockney and that terrible lisp is not fooling anyone. The other—” she nodded toward Grimm, “—holds his gun as if he is in the middle of target practice. Clearly not a sport he excels at,” she added with a critical shake of her head. Then she lifted her eyes back to him and Rutherford felt the intelligent perception of her gaze like a sharpened spear. “Though your clothing is plain, dark and unadorned, it is of good quality with nary a worn hem or weakened seam. Your horses are all far too superior to be the possessions of needful men, unless horse thievery is part of your criminal repertoire.” She shrugged as a self-satisfied smile curved her lips. “As a group, you do not look like any highwaymen I have ever encountered.”
“You have encountered many?”
Her grin widened. “None at all.”
“You are an expert then,” Rutherford countered, his words heavy with irony.
“I admit my life is not one to lend itself to many high adventures, but I have read countless descriptions of highway thieves,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “The truth is you all lack the key characteristic of the particular class of criminal you are portraying.”
“What is that?” he asked, curious despite himself.
“Desperation,” she answered as if it were obvious. “Highway robbery is a dangerous vocation, and I am afraid none of you appear to be badly in need of anything, let alone other people’s jewels.”
Her perceptions did not speak well of their acting skills, but he had to make an attempt at easing her skepticism. “Why else would we risk our necks in such an endeavor?” he asked flippantly to give the impression of a man with no care beyond idle curiosity what conclusions she may have drawn.
She narrowed her gaze thoughtfully and tapped a gloved finger against her lips. “For excitement, perhaps?”
Rutherford shifted again in his saddle. His mask began to feel cloying and itchy against his face. Then he realized his silence would likely give the woman cause for more speculation.
“You were right, after all,” he replied finally. “A woman’s thoughts are quite worthless. I demand another prize.”
Before she could respond, he leaned down from atop his mount and reached to wrap his gloved hand around the back of her neck. He caught a brief glimpse of her wide eyes shining with the light of the moon just before he claimed her mouth in a swift and silencing kiss. He didn’t expect the lush, silken texture of her lips to send a shock of piercing lust through his brain, but it did. He hadn’t intended to kiss her for more than a second but found that once he got a taste of her, sweet like warm honey, he could not release her. He brushed his lips across hers once, then twice more before finally drawing back.
Still leaning close, he shifted his mouth to her ear and added in a harsh whisper, “Now that was a treasure worth stealing.”
Sliding his hand from her nape, he slowly straightened in the saddle.
He expected her to back away, to play the affronted miss. But she didn’t.
During the kiss, she had stepped into him and stood still now with her chest pressed against his lower leg and her hand resting on his bent knee. Heat from her touch spread across the surface of his thigh and sent shocks of sensation straight to his groin.
He held his breath, afraid to move lest he grasp her shoulders and drag her up into his lap to kiss her more thoroughly.
She seemed frozen in place much like him, her gaze focused intently upon her hand as it curved over the bend of his knee. She started to raise her chin to look up at him and he tensed painfully, certain he did not want to see what thoughts might be reflected in her eyes.
“Lizzie! Lizzie, get back in this carriage immediately.” Lady Terribury stuck her feather-topped head out the window. “What in heaven’s name are you doing? We almost left without you!”
Stumbling back a step, she withdrew her hand to pull her hood over her head as she tu
rned away. Then she rushed to the carriage without a backward glance.
Whitely and Grimm had already faded back into the darkness as planned. Rutherford pulled sternly on the reins of his mount and made a tight turn toward the shelter of the trees and then nudged his horse into motion.
His heart beat in a heavy tattoo and his blood rushed swiftly through his veins. He accredited his physical reaction to the thrill in having accomplished the risky theft without being recognized. But as he rolled his tongue over his bottom lip, he tasted the bold sweetness of Miss Terribury’s mouth and felt a jolt of sensation that had nothing to do with the danger of their scheme.
Several paces into the forest he reached his cohorts.
“Have you got it?”
“Yes, thank God,” Grimm assured.
“The lady had it tucked into her meager bodice,” Whitely quipped as he handed the sack of stolen items to Rutherford as planned. “It’s a wonder it didn’t slip through to the ground.”
Grimm attempted a contemptuous scowl, but he looked about as dangerous as a puppy. “Don’t talk about her bodice. Are we done here? The night air is likely to give me the sniffles on the morrow.”
“We will split up once you hand me the ring,” Rutherford countered firmly.
“Can I not hold onto it myself?”
“We have to keep everything out of sight until Simmons can see it all safely and anonymously returned. Your ring must be amongst the other valuables you already gave me.”
“But…”
“Would you rather have Lady Ashdown see it in your possession? How would you explain that you managed to retrieve an item stolen from her person by a highwayman?”
Grimm slumped in his saddle and reached out to drop the ring in Rutherford’s hand. “What about my father? He will notice the ring is missing from my hand.”
“You will simply have to avoid him for a few weeks.”
Grimm groaned.
Whitely laughed. “Maybe you could take a trip. Somewhere your father cannot drag you back. Somewhere like Siberia.”
“Probably not far enough,” Grimm grumbled as he turned his horse.
Before he rode off, Rutherford reminded him, “Do not forget to report your own robbery to the magistrate. If you are to get your valuables returned when the thieves have a change of heart, the authorities will need to know what has been stolen.”
Grimm waved his hand in acknowledgement but said nothing.
“Perhaps we should have handled this without him,” Whitely speculated as they watched their friend ride away.
“He will be fine,” Rutherford assured. “We have been through enough over the years to know there is no need to doubt him.”
Whitely chuckled. “Remember the time we rode from London to Oxford with three cases of smuggled French wine?”
Rutherford nodded and a smile crept to his lips as he turned his horse around and the men started in the opposite direction. “I will never forget it. We never would have gotten the stuff into the dormitory if not for Grimm’s brilliant distraction.”
Whitely guffawed. “The brightest moon I’ve ever seen.”
Chapter Eight
Eliza lifted her eyes from the paper and glanced out the attic window with an unfocussed gaze. She did not see the fog-covered London neighborhood stretched before her. She saw Sir Randolph marching with stark determination across a blackened field of battle. Bodies—bloodied and broken—littered the ground. His helmet swung from his hand, dented and cracked.
She tapped the end of her pencil against her bottom lip.
“Why is he still there? What is he looking for?” she murmured out loud. Still gazing out the window, she narrowed her gaze to a slit and willed the moon to appear.
Torn standards flew over the battlefield. Tired, loyal war horses devoid of their riders stomped their heavy hooves in the mud. Ominous clouds drifted past the glowing night orb, momentarily darkening the landscape.
Sir Randolph appeared again in her mind’s eye, standing solitary in the wasted field. But his appearance had altered. He no longer wore the armor of a medieval warrior. He was now in the garb of a highwayman. The shadow of his felt hat shielded his face from the moonlight. Eliza wished he would lift his chin so she could discern his features.
“Lizzie.”
Eliza turned from the battlefield scene to scowl over her shoulder at the attic door. She sighed with relief as she saw she had remembered to lock it.
“Lizzie!” The plaintive voice was followed by a rattle of the doorknob and then a harried knock.
“Mother, I am writing. I do not wish to be disturbed.” Her mother knew full well what the locked door signified.
A long-suffering sigh resounded from beyond the door. “Lizzie, I need to speak with your father. Do you know where he is? I cannot find him anywhere.”
He was likely ensconced in his usual hiding place. A small corner of the townhouse where he preferred to go when he needed some peace and quiet. Or when he simply wished to avoid her mother. Eliza suspected it was not easy for him as the only male in a family of so many females. As far as Eliza knew, she was the only member of the family who had discovered her father’s little retreat. She had kept his secret in full understanding of his need to escape every now and then.
The attic was her escape. Years ago, she had had the place swept free of any spiders who may have taken up residence—she could not stand the creatures—and had cleared a small place for herself in front of the windows. A large rug covered the floor and a wide cushioned bench was set in the alcove of the eaves where she could sit and gaze out over the city. A large wooden chest, which sometimes served as a table, contained enough paper and ink to get her through a decade or more of writing.
“Lizzie!”
Eliza sighed and cast a sad glance out the window, but the battlefield had been replaced by the never-ending stretch of townhouses and paved streets.
“Have you checked the cellar?”
“The cellar? Why on earth would he be in the cellar?” Her mother’s voice faded away as she turned from the door to descend the narrow steps. Eliza’s false direction should give her father a bit more time to himself.
Now where was she?
Oh yes, Sir Randolph on the battlefield. Or was it a mysterious highwayman with the manner and bearing of a gentleman?
In the three days since the adventure on the road back to London, Eliza had revisited her memories of the robbery a million times. Something about the mounted thief who had stolen a kiss rather than her grandmother’s pearls had snagged on a corner of her consciousness and could not be freed.
In the moment when he had drawn her to him by the steady grip of his hand at her nape, Eliza could swear she’d caught a scent of spiced citrus. The scent was distinctive and caused a flash of acute recognition. And when he had leaned forward, the touch of his lips had been warm and direct. With no apology, no entreaty. It had been exactly the kind of kiss she would have expected from the marquess—straight-forward, self-assured and far too devastating. In those long seconds as the highwayman’s lips had brushed gently over hers, to her mind it had been Rutherford kissing her.
Which was entirely ridiculous.
Setting her pencil and notebook on the cushioned bench beside her, Eliza kicked off her shoes and drew her feet beneath her skirts as she gazed out the window. Her sigh was heavy and thoughtful.
She was almost prepared to admit to herself that she could very well be developing an infatuation with the marquess. For some reason, she even found his boorish nature endearing. And the day at Silverly, when she had challenged his masculine pride and he had nearly kissed her, she had been more than willing to accept the retaliation he intended.
Her cheeks grew warm just thinking about it.
Yes, she could admit she had wanted the marquess to kiss her. She had often replayed that moment in her mind with an entirely different ending. But surely her imagination had gotten away from her if she was so easily able to place him in the boots
of a highway thief. The idea of the exalted Marquess of Rutherford donning common garb and sneaking through the woods to steal the jewels of unsuspecting travelers was simply laughable.
She glanced down at her notebook with a mild grimace. Perhaps her mother was right and she was spending too much time in the worlds of her imagination.
As soon as the thought formed, Eliza dashed it away.
Nonsense.
She reached for the notebook again and found the page where she had left off. Her writing was the one thing that kept her sane and filled her with a sense of purpose that went beyond her daily existence. And whatever had happened to her since encountering the marquess in his bedroom, one certain result had been an increase in ready inspiration for her current project.
Eliza stood with punch in hand, waiting for the crush of people in the ballroom to shift just enough to allow her a little space to breathe. It was the seventh such event in the last two weeks she had attended on her mother’s insistence. Lady Terribury had scoured their invitations to carefully accept only those she thought would be the most likely to produce an encounter with Lord Rutherford.
Unfortunately, he had not deigned to attend a single one. There was one party two nights ago when Lady Terribury swore she saw him through the crowd. By the time they made it to the spot where she thought she had seen him, there was no sign he had ever been there at all. Then again, in such crushing crowds, he could be five paces away and one might not ever know it.
Which was just fine with Eliza.
Since the Blackbourne party, her mother had doubled her motivation in seeing Eliza matched with the marquess. As Eliza had feared, the fact that Rutherford had taken her to the dance floor in a waltz had convinced Lady Terribury that this time she had a solid chance at gaining the top prize. Her mother didn’t even bother compelling Eliza to garner interest from any other suitors.
This was also perfectly fine with Eliza since it meant she was free to dance with men whose company interested her, and she was not forced to engage in idle chit-chat with someone simply because they met her mother’s standards of a good match.
