by Tarah Scott
“I'm unaccustomed to skulking about in the forest.” She shivered for good measure.
“Indeed,” he agreed, and allowed her to lean on him as they started forward.
Phoebe sighed. “Perhaps…” she let her voice drop off.
“What is it, Miss?” He guided her around a large branch.
“If I were back in the safety of my carriage…”
“We'll soon have you back,” he replied.
“Can’t we go directly there? Your master will make short work of those men. We could—”
“Oh no, we must be sure those rogues are dispatched before we return.”
“Which rogues do you refer to?” she demanded.
“Beg your pardon, Miss?”
His voice, she realized, carried a note that was just a bit too solicitous. She yanked free of his grasp. “Very funny, my man.”
“Are you sure you're all right, Miss?” he asked with no change of demeanor.
“No, I am not all right. Would you be all right if you had been abducted against your will?”
“No,” he answered thoughtfully, “I suppose not.”
Phoebe distinguished the edge of the forest up ahead.
“We’ll wait here.” Mather grasped her arm and urged her down to the ground.
She resisted. “I don't want to sit on the ground. It is wet.”
“Better wet than dead.” He shoved her with enough force that she plopped onto the ground.
“You are no gentleman," she muttered.
They waited for what she estimated to be twenty minutes when Mather said, “You’re looking fit, sir.”
She twisted to see Mather’s master approaching. Even in the darkness she discerned his limp.
“Well enough, Mather,” he rejoined.
Phoebe rose as he neared.
“Shall we?” Grasping her arm, he started toward the road.
“That’s a bit of a limp you’ve got there,” she said as they broke from the trees. “Have a little trouble when you did away with those scoundrels?”
He looked sharply at her. “I did not do away with anyone, madam."
“You did away with the one you shot.”
“I didn’t kill him or the others. Though, they will have blazing headaches tomorrow.”
“Payment for injuries inflicted?” Mather asked, keeping his gaze straight ahead.
“It was,” he said with emphasis. “But only because the one fellow was reluctant to lay down his weapon.”
Mather gave a single nod. “As you say, sir.”
Phoebe glanced about for the carriage. The dilapidated farmhouse lay to the left a short distance, but the carriage wasn't where they'd left it in front of the building. She scanned to the right and spied the coach sticking out from the trees a little farther down the road.
“Why didn’t they take the carriage?”
“Lack of funds, I would imagine,” the highwayman replied.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, their employer didn't pay them enough to make it worth the possibility of getting their heads shot off.”
“I did not hear your pistol discharge—and you said you didn't kill them,” she said.
“I didn’t kill them,” he said irritably. “Still, they resisted. Once I relieved the one gentleman of this, however,” he produced a pistol from his waistband at it his back, “they were much more docile.”
Phoebe grasped his wrist. He halted.
“A Circa Percussion Dueling pistol,” she remarked. “Deluxe nickel plated engraved barrel, trigger and butt plate.” She dropped his hand and it fell limp at his side. Phoebe regarded him. “Rather fine weapon for a highwayman. But then, it would seem highwaymen live fine lives these days.” She looked meaningfully at his clothes.
He lifted a brow. “As I have yet to rob you, madam, I don't see that you are justified in branding me a highwayman.”
Phoebe extended her arms, holding tight to her cloak. The breeze filtered through the cloak and around the silk gown she wore. Locks of golden hair that had come loose from their pins fluttered before her vision. “I have nothing of value.”
He grinned and a flash of white teeth shone. “But, my dear, you have a great deal to offer.”
Phoebe blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “Tell Adam the answer is still no.”
“Ahhh," he intoned. "Progress. Does Lord Stoneleigh know of the illustrious Adam?”
“Lord Stoneleigh? What has he to do with Adam?" A chill shot through her. These men weren't friends of Adam. "What does Lord Stoneleigh want with me?" she demanded.
The highwayman made a tsking sound. “Regan was right. You are in a fit.”
“What are you talking about?”
He didn’t respond, but stuffed the pistol into his waistband, then glanced at the sky. “We should be off.”
“Aye,” Mather replied and began again in the direction of the carriage.
The highwayman bowed slightly and gestured for her to precede him. Phoebe stepped back a pace. He didn’t move until she retreated a second step, then he moved in tandem with her third step. His gaze didn’t waver from hers but, on the fifth step, he halted.
“You can't go far.”
“Far enough.”
He leapt forward. Phoebe dodged his grab. Turning on the ball of her foot as he propelled past her, she kicked his rump. He stumbled, landing face down on the ground. Phoebe dashed for the trees. Mather’s shout broke the quiet. She had just entered the trees when iron fingers seized her arm. He swung her around and into his arms.
The highwayman caught her with a grunt. “Perhaps you ought to have foregone the honey cakes at Drucilla’s soirée.”
Phoebe kicked his shin.
He yanked her roughly to him. “You will do no better in these woods than you would have at the hands of those footpads. Don’t forget, they could awake anytime. Where would you be, then?”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her from the ground. She allowed her body to sag and her weight yanked him downward.
“Bloody wench.” He hauled her over his shoulder.
For a horrible instant it seemed the momentum would land her on her head. She threw her arms around his waist as his arm clamped down on her legs. "By heavens, sir, I have been conked on the head once tonight as a consequence of you. I would prefer not to make it twice."
He muttered something under his breath and started toward the carriage.
Phoebe noted his limp had become more pronounced. “Does that injury hurt?”
He remained silent. When they stepped from the forest, the carriage sat within a few feet of the trees with Mather at the open door. For the second time that night, the brigand threw her onto the cushions of the coach.
“Mather,” he said, stepping in behind her, “take us from this accursed place.”
Mather closed the door. Phoebe edged toward the opposite door.
“Pray, do not force me to chase you again.” He settled himself against the cushion opposite her. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”
The coach started forward and Phoebe was jostled to one side. “It is you who owe me the explanation.” She righted herself. “You kidnapped me.”
“I am no more a kidnapper than a highwayman.”
She arched a brow.
“I am taking you to Regan.”
Her mind raced. What did the earl want with her? Did this have something to do with Heddy? Heddy was furious with him for dallying with Lady Phillips, and decided to teach him a lesson by not meeting him this evening as planned. But Lord Stoneleigh hadn't seemed the least bit concerned about Heddy when he'd flirted with Phoebe earlier that evening. In any case, the earl certainly didn't make a habit of kidnapping ladies. As for the man sitting across from her…
“Sir, whatever your game, this has gone far enough. One does not kidnap a lady.”
“Miss Ballingham, really—”
“Miss Ballingham—you think I'm Heddy?” Relief flooded through her. �
�This is nothing more than a case of mistaken identity.”
“Indeed?”
“You have mistaken me for Hester Ballingham. Understandable, given that I am in her carriage.”
“A fine barouche-landau.”
Phoebe gave him a recriminating look. “I understand it is a rare vehicle, but I am not her.”
“I see," he replied. "So aside from sharing an expensive carriage, you also share the same unusual hair color?"
"Only somewhat," Phoebe said. "Heddy is fair haired, but not so golden."
"Your hair is, indeed, golden," he said in a soft voice. Before Phoebe could reply, he added, "Where is Miss Ballingham this evening? Why isn't she in her own carriage?”
“Heddy is ill.” Or she would be once Phoebe got her hands on her. Heddy knew the barouche would be recognized, so had sent the expensive carriage for Phoebe, while she used a nondescript chaise she kept for assignations with gentleman she wished to keep secret from her current protector—in this case, Lord Stoneleigh.
The highwayman leaned forward and placed a hand on hers. “You needn’t worry. I didn't lie when I said I would deliver you straight to Regan.”
Phoebe snatched her hand away from beneath his. “I do not wish to go to Lord Stoneleigh.”
He sat back. “You will, no doubt, be just as pleased to see him as you were Lord Beasley earlier this evening.”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “You were spying on me.”
“I was at the ball.”
“Then you saw Lord Stoneleigh dance with me.”
“I didn't see Regan at the party.”
“He was there," Phoebe insisted.
The corner of the brigand’s mouth twitched. “You carried on shamelessly with Lord Beasley.”
"What? I danced with him twice. That is hardly shameless."
"Indeed, it is," he said. "But you were also dancing much too close."
She groaned inwardly. Lord Stoneleigh’s cupid clearly knew of Hester's reputation for shameless flirtations and feminine tantrums, and—"Wait," Phoebe exclaimed. "If you saw me at the ball, how could you possibly mistake me for Hester?"
"It wasn’t until I saw you in the coach that I knew you were the woman I saw dancing with Beasley."
"By heavens, why didn't you speak with me then, make sure who I was before embarking on such a numskull plot?" she demanded.
"I fully intended to seek an introduction to you, sweetheart, but when I received word that Miss Ballingham had left in her coach I was forced to leave." He smiled. "Imagine my disappointment when I discovered you were Regan's paramour."
"Disappointment?"
He regarded her. "I wonder what Regan would do if I kept you to myself instead of giving you back."
She stared. "Give me back? I’m not yours to give—or his to have!"
The highwayman sighed. “I suppose he would fret if we didn’t meet him as promised. He explained his offence, by the way. Really? Is it fair to punish him for a slight indiscretion—or were his trinkets not expensive enough to sooth your wounded pride?”
"I hardly call disappearing into Lord Rupert's gardens with Lord Phillip's young widow a slight indiscretion." The words were out of her mouth before she realized her mistake.
“So I thought,” he said.
“I am not Hester,” she shot back.
“The trip to Brahan Seer is only two days—”
“Two days?” Phoebe exploded.
“Two days there and two days back. Then there are the days you and Regan will reconcile.”
Four days—or more? Panic coursed through her. Her uncle would be frantic, not to mention, she couldn't begin to comprehend the affect this affair might have on her career as an English spy. Her employment with the Crown was tenuous, despite the fact she had proven her worth when information she gathered two years ago exposed Lord Capell of Parliament as the man responsible for the disappearance of a dozen young girls. He'd been supplying brothels with the girls, many of whom had been murdered by the brothel owners.
Phoebe saw her hard work going up in smoke. Her mentor, Lord Alistair Redgrave, might overlook the fact she'd been spirited away in the dead of night by a man, but her superior, Lord Briarden, wouldn't appreciate the attention such a scandal would bring to one of his agents. This is what she got for allowing her maid to leave when she'd claimed illness. Phoebe should have gone home with the girl.
“I can't be away for four days,” Phoebe insisted.
“My apologies for interfering with your other assignations,” the highwayman said.
“There will be hell to pay when my absence is discovered,” she snapped.
“Regan will sooth your pride.”
“I am speaking of my family, you fool. My uncle will have your hide.”
“I wager Regan will appease him as well,” he replied.
She stared. “You truly are mad.”
“You don't wish to snare an earl?” he asked.
“I do not.”
“Perhaps you have your sights set higher?”
She didn’t break from his stare. “Has it occurred to you that if I am telling the truth, you will be the unfortunate who is forced to marry me?”
"So you are ambitious," he murmured. "But at least you're honest."
“Take yourself out of my carriage,” she ordered.
“We're in the middle of nowhere. Where would I go?”
Phoebe gave him a sweet smile. “Go to the devil.”
“And my coachman?”
“You will need him more than I.”
“You would drive these chestnuts yourself?”
“Why not?”
"Interesting," he said.
She scowled. "That I can drive a pair of horses?"
“No. That you haven’t yet resorted to fainting.”
*****
Phoebe prayed the man sitting across from her believed she was sleeping. He had left off further conversation when she relaxed into the corner and allowed her mouth to go slack. She cracked open one eye and observed him. Eyes closed, he too, appeared to be resting. She didn't believe that for an instant. The carriage slowed and the highwayman opened his eyes. Phoebe sighed as if the slight disturbance had intruded upon her sleep and she slumped more heavily into the corner.
A moment of silence followed before the door opposite her opened, then clicked shut. The carriage swayed slightly and she knew he had climbed up top. The vehicle settled and she opened her eyes and scooted closer to the door. They swayed left as the road curved. She gripped the handle and carefully opened the door. The latch released with a tiny click.
Phoebe held her breath, but no cry of discovery came from above. The carriage hugged the shoulder of the road so that she could nearly touch the tree branches. She lifted her skirts, poised to jump, but hesitated at sight of the fast moving ground. She had fallen from the carriage earlier and was none the worse for wear. Hadn’t they been moving slower then? She glanced at the dark forest. If she injured herself, how far would she have to walk to civilization? That challenge, she realized, paled in comparison to her uncle's reaction if he discovered she’d been closeted away with a man for days. Phoebe jumped.
She hit the ground quicker than anticipated. The impact knocked the wind from her. She wheezed for air as a sharp pain shot through her head. The retreating carriage blurred in her vision, seeming to vanish into the yawning mouth of a black cave. She scrambled to her feet and plunged into the fuzzy darkness of the trees.
A sound emanated behind her, but the pounding inside her head muffled it beyond recognition. Phoebe closed her eyes and tried willing the pain into submission. She opened them just in time to miss a low hanging branch. The quick swerve brought her to her knees.
CHAPTER THREE
Flickering light penetrated Phoebe’s consciousness. Orange and red flames swam before her vision and she blinked into focus the fire that burned in the hearth beyond the foot of the bed where she lay. She moved her gaze to the left and saw a door leading to... Phoebe con
centrated in an effort to place her surroundings, but the world outside that door—the world beyond this moment—remained a mystery. She looked to the wall on her left, saw an armoire, then the deep alcove farther left. She started at sight of the tall form standing at the alcove’s end, staring out the window.
The highwayman.
He shifted. She clamped shut her eyes. The pad of boots on the carpet drew near and continued around the bed to her right. A faint rustle of clothes followed, then silence. She waited a moment before slitting open one eye. The highwayman reclined in a chair beside the bed. His legs, stretched out before him, spanned the remaining length of the bed. His head rested against the chair back and his eyes were closed. He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger as if to ward off a headache. His hand fell away from his face and Phoebe closed her eyes. Had he seen her? She abruptly felt the dislocation of air near her face, the sense of his nearness, though she had heard no sound of movement.
“What possessed you to take such a foolhardy risk?” he whispered.
A wisp of air brushed her eyelashes. His sigh.
A soft scratching sounded at the door and a dull pain rumbled through her head.
The door clicked open and a voice said, “You must rest, sir.”
Mather.
“If the lady wakens with you hovering over her as you are, you're likely to give her a start.”
“Unlikely,” the highwayman replied in hushed tones. Phoebe knew by the location of his voice, he had straightened away from her. “Any woman who would jump from a moving carriage isn't easily frightened. I'll be glad when Connor has another look at her. Until now, she hasn’t moved a muscle.”
“He promised to be here bright and early,” Mather said.
“Yes,” the highwayman replied in a dry tone. “I wonder if his dedication is due to concern or curiosity.” He chuckled. “The good doctor gave me an odd look when I told him Heddy had fallen from the carriage. Damn, but I hope he doesn’t take it in his head to contact my father.”
“Old Connor knows which side his bread is buttered on,” Mather said with such loyalty, Phoebe wanted to roll her eyes.
“My father is the one who butters Connor’s bread,” the highwayman said.
“Speaking of,” Mather began.
