by Tarah Scott
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.
LORD KEEPER
CHAPTER ONE
Scottish Highlands 1508
Iain might have been standing on the edge of a dream when the abbey door opened and she stepped out into the morning light. Though separated by a small earthly measure of holy ground, he sensed her mind to be as far from him as heaven was from hell. His heart stilled with the sudden blaze of auburn hair against the Highland sun and he determined to learn what color eyes matched such fire.
With a nod in response to Father Brennan’s statement that the Menzies clan was rumored to be raiding land to the north, Iain slid a hand along his horse’s neck. The beast nickered and shifted beneath him. An answering whinny followed from one of his men’s horses behind him. Careful not to give away his intention, Iain slid his gaze across the heather covered hills in the background, and covertly monitored the woman’s progress as she strolled along the grounds, a book in hand. Another moment and she would be off Montrose Abbey.
She slowed.
Annoyance flared. Curse the archaic law that kept her safe on holy ground. What if he ignored the civilized directives instilled by his education, and simply took her? He dropped his attention to the intricately carved leather wristband that covered his arm from wrist to elbow. A deep scratch spanned the leather, a reminder of the battle that almost took his arm, had taken the lives of many good men, a battle fought in the name of justice.
Iain looked up in response to Father Brennan’s report that four Menzies clansmen had passed the abbey yesterday afternoon. He was in no mood to encounter marauding Menzies on his return home, particularly considering his change in plans. He breathed deep of the Scots pine scent carried on the keening wind. The law forbade him taking the woman while on holy ground, but sanctioned the kidnapping once she entered the outside world. No law would be broken, no war begun when he claimed her.
Ticking off the seconds in his mind, he gauged her progress away from the grassy expanse that marked the distance needed to intercept her race back to the monastery. Any resistance would be hampered by the heavy skirts of her expensive brocade dress. She took the last fateful step. Iain flashed Father Brennan a grin as he grasped the hook on his claymore’s scabbard and unhooked latch from hook. Sword and scabbard dropped to the ground. The priest’s eyes registered surprise, then understanding. He whirled as Iain dug his heels into the horse’s belly and broke ranks with his men.
“Run!” the priest shouted.
She looked up from her book. In seconds, Iain drew close enough to discern the expression of a doe catching first sight of the bowman. His heart surged. Mayhap the wide-eyed stare wasn’t fear, but fascination? Understanding lit her features and Iain laughed at his folly. The doe realized the bowman meant to have her, after all.
She dropped the book and yanked up her skirts to run. Iain veered right and leaned from the saddle as she darted left. He seized her waist. She gave a muffled ‘oof’ and kicked when he dragged her against the side of the galloping beast, her legs tangled in her skirts. The horse snorted, his gait faltering with the uneven burden; he steadied and Iain hauled her across his thighs.
His groin pulsed with the weight of her derriere across his lap. He laughed to himself. If she understood the pleasure her struggles afforded him, she would cease. His horse snorted and Iain threw a leg over the lass’ shins, hugging them close to the belly of the beast. She grunted with the effort of trying to slide from the saddle, then stiffened with his firm grip on her thigh.
“Iain,” Father Brennan said in a loud voice.
Iain forced his attention from the disheveled mass of velvet hair that cascaded down slim shoulders and looked to where the priest had retreated onto holy ground. Father Brennan motioned him forward. Iain smiled and gave a shake of his head. The hand at Father Brennan’s side fisted.
Good. The priest understood no MacPherson would set foot on holy ground today.
The woman’s muscles tightened in another attempt to throw off his leg, and Iain gave the flesh a warning squeeze without breaking eye contact with Father Brennan. The priest ran the back of a forefinger in a slow line along each side of his mustache. Iain understood his shrewd look, but the curiosity in his eyes was a surprise. He strode toward them, and the warriors who had ridden in with Iain drew up alongside as the priest neared.
“It doesna’ seem she is taken with your charm, Iain,” Father Brennan said.
“Charm?” his captive snapped. “What madness is this?”
“Patience, lass. It is a simple mistake.” The priest looked pointedly at Iain.
“Aye,” she blurted, “and this barbarian would do well to release me before he discovers just how grave a mistake.”
Iain glanced at his companions when someone unsuccessfully stifled mirth.
Father Brennan clicked his tongue with impatience. “Iain, you cannot take her.”
Iain responded with a raise of his brows.
“Aye, then,” Father Brennan muttered, “you can take her, but ’tis not fair play. I had not informed her of this tradition. A tradition long dead,” he added with asperity.
“I believe it was you who said ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Iain reminded him with a low laugh.
Father Brennan hesitated. “You must know she is English. Are you sure you want her?”
The lady gasped. Iain started to demanded explanation for the slur, but forestalled at something unknown in the priest’s demeanor and replied in an unruffled tone, “If I did not want her, I would not have taken her.”
Relief flickered in Father Brennan’s eyes, but his voice remained insistent. “This is wrong. She did not know it was unsafe to step from holy ground.”
“Unsafe?” Iain echoed.
Father Brennan’s expression darkened. “You heard what I said, Iain MacPherson, unsafe.”
“Is she entering the convent?” Father Brennan’s frown deepened, and Iain added, “It is, no doubt, a grievous sin to lie about such matters.”
“By the saints. Nay, you scoundrel, she has no such intentions.”
“Why is she here?”
“Sweet Jesu,” the lady cursed. “What concern is that of yours?”
Iain shifted his gaze to her. Fury ruled her gaze, but it was the challenge in the lift of her chin that gripped his heart. “Where is your husband, lass?”
Silence hung thick in the air and every nerve stood ready for the answer he dreaded, hadn’t considered, until this moment.
“In a grave in England,” she answered at last.
That was unexpected and Iain wasn’t sure whether to praise God she was free, or feel compassion she had lost a loved one. Guilt surfaced with the realization that he gladly chose the former. He wheeled his horse around.
“Nay!” She kicked the stallion’s belly.
