Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

The entire scene was surreal, like some trick from a traveling gypsy circus. Maybe the man was a gypsy himself, come to think of it.

  Kit could only stare as the gig slowed and then came to a stop right before the dangerous turn in the road.

  All in all, the entire incident had lasted less than a minute.

  Breathing heavily and shaking from delayed shock, Kit watched as her rescuer patted the horse’s neck, making soothing noises and calming the frightened animal. With the same easy grace, the man dismounted, holding the lathered horse still and keeping a reassuring hand on the animal’s neck.

  And then he lifted his head and turned his attention to her.

  Oh my, whispered Virtuous Angel.

  Oh my, indeed.

  Dark, wind-blown hair curled over his ears and coat collar. A day or two of beard growth stubbled his cheeks. His tanned skin hinted at a life spent outdoors. A caped greatcoat clung to his shoulders and then dropped straight to practically brush the ground, a blue jacket peeking out underneath. The wild chase had rumpled him, leaving his coat askew, chest heaving for air.

  But it was his eyes—vividly green against his tanned cheeks and dark hair—that held her attention. They thrummed with life, promising a rogue’s tongue and unruly past.

  A far cry from the pampered, fussy, civilized men who inhabited her life.

  Uhmmm . . . suggestion, murmured Wicked Angel. When we abscond with a couple rings and the gig, I nominate we take him too.

  Kit sighed in agreement.

  Not helping, Virtuous Angel muttered. The last thing we need is a pretty-faced distraction right now.

  But, oh, what a delicious distraction . . .

  Who was he? And how had he happened to be along the private lane to Haldon Manor?

  Though bedraggled, the fine-cut and fabric of his clothing spoke of refinement and money. Her mystery man cocked his head at her, continuing to pat the horse comfortingly, catching his breath.

  “Good heavens,” Kit murmured. Though the word came out as more of a breathy sigh than an exclamation.

  Not exactly the best beginning. She tried again.

  “Thank you, sir.” She nodded at him, unable to tear her eyes free. His striking gaze pinned her to her seat.

  “Are you . . . unharmed?” His low, cultured voice was still somewhat winded but confirmed him a gentleman.

  “I am well. You have my deepest thanks.” Kit blinked. Surely her eyes were too wide, wide, wide.

  She smoothed her hands against her skirts and used the excuse to cast a quick glance down at her clothing.

  Drat.

  Her cloak had swung around to her front and her bonnet was gone, torn from her head by the terrifying ride, no doubt. In her peripheral vision, she could see locks of hair dangling free from their pins. She actively resisted the urge to pat them back into place. Not that it would help, really.

  She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked a fright.

  And even with everything set to rights, she would still be wearing a second-hand brown wool dress—a lady of genteel birth fallen on hard times.

  Which, currently, described her situation quite accurately.

  How would this man react if he could see her as she looked at home in her own clothing, coolly confident? Well . . . at least as confident as she could be. And how pathetic she even thought such a thing.

  He could never see her like that. It would risk too much. A man like him would never be welcome in her world.

  He said nothing, but merely scrubbed an ungloved hand through his mussed hair, somehow rendering it just that much more tempting.

  How could a man sprint onto the back of a runaway horse and come out looking even better than before? Not that she had seen him before, but still.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Kit generally considered herself immune to attractive men. Inoculated against them.

  She had been raised with her handsome brother after all, and the men she associated with before landing at Haldon Manor were an urbane lot. Clever, sophisticated, moneyed.

  In short, Kit Ashton was not the sort of woman to become infatuated with a handsome face.

  So it came as no surprise that the gentlemen she had met so far at Haldon Manor scarcely turned her head. Jedediah Knight . . . uh, obviously no. Lord Linwood was not un-handsome, but his starched demeanor and cool reserve easily counteracted his good looks.

  But this man . . .

  He seemed elemental. Untamed. Dangerous.

  The kind of man who would entice a woman to make poor life choices.

  The kind of man her mother would have warned her to stay far, far away from.

  What a pity she had never had a mother’s influence.

  Wicked Angel snickered at the sarcasm.

  Really, he needs to come along with us, Wicked Angel urged. He could be the scenery.

  You are such a trial. We are not running away, remember? No matter how lovely the scenery, Virtuous Angel chided.

  Kit batted both thoughts away, but she did give in and straightened the cloak around her shoulders.

  “I cannot imagine my fate had you not happened along.” She pasted on a bright smile.

  Mmmm, perhaps a little too bright. Star-struck. She dimmed it a bit.

  Tried again.

  “How does one ever learn such a remarkable trick?” She gestured toward the horse.

  He stared for a moment, giving her a chance to study the carved planes of his face.

  Yes. Still handsome.

  Drat him for making her want to flirt.

  A lady’s companion did not flirt. Of that she was quite certain.

  But he was just so irresistibly . . . male. So self-assured and capable in that romantic greatcoat which made his shoulders seem enormous.

  And, heaven knew, she had such weakness for broad shoulders. They made her want to place things on them . . . like her hands or head or . . . her problems.

  How wonderful would it be to have such strong shoulders as a sanctuary? A place to rest from her troubles.

  But she had promised herself she would be good.

  That thought settled it. No flirting then.

  He shrugged and said, “Happy to be of service,” while continuing to pat the horse’s neck.

  Completely ignoring her question.

  Hmmm. Why avoid the question? Apparently, she wasn’t the only one with secrets.

  A soft breeze tugged at Kit’s hair, implying that more of it was down that she had initially thought.

  Blast.

  Pausing, as if unsure, the man gave her a brief bow.

  Kit blinked and felt her smile falter.

  So was he dashing, handsome, secretive and . . . rude?

  He had turned back to the horse, continuing to sooth the lathered beast. She studied the man’s dark curls for a moment and then her eyes met his as he raised his head again.

  He didn’t look particularly haughty. More like harried.

  Odd.

  So perhaps not . . . rude? Dashing and handsome went without saying.

  But still definitely secretive.

  Her eyes narrowed. How to prod him?

  “Miss Katherine Ashton, pleased to make your acquaintance.” She nodded politely. And then waited for him to do the same.

  He said nothing. Did nothing. Just continued to stare at her with those rather unnerving green eyes.

  He was clearly going to need more prodding.

  She leaned forward, as if imparting a confidence. “In a polite conversation between a lady and a gentleman, this is the point where you, sir, introduce yourself.” She paused. Waiting.

  Again, he said nothing and instead widened his eyes, as if her suggestion had startled him. As if the entire scene with her were overwhelming in some way.

  The silence lingered a little too long.

  “Let’s just say that I am a . . . friend,” he finally responded with a wary tip of his head.

  “A friend?”

  He shrugged.

  “That is
all the answer you will deign to give me?”

  He raised an amused eyebrow, his face showing a sudden hint of mischievousness.

  “I did just save your life. I should be allowed an eccentricity or two.”

  Unbidden, Kit found herself matching his tone. “I believe incivility was the word you wanted there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “An orange cravat or flower in your hat would be an eccentricity. A refusal to introduce oneself is something else entirely.”

  “Ah.” His head reared back. “And you feel incivility fits the bill?”

  It was Kit’s turn to shrug. Saucily mimicking his nonchalance.

  He gave a wry grin. Though . . . it was so much more than just a grin, really.

  He had one of those slow-burn smiles. The kind that started small and then grew wider and wider until pow! You forgot how to breathe.

  Stupid, handsome man.

  “After such a scolding, I can hardly introduce myself now, can I?” He added a cocky smirk to his ridiculously charming smile.

  Both her eyebrows went up and she folded her hands in her lap. Mostly because they itched to swat that grin off his face. “You must forgive me, sir. I am not adept at following astonishing jumps in logic.”

  Impossibly, his smile broadened, crinkling his eyes. “That was nicely done.”

  “Excuse me?” It was Kit’s turn to look confused.

  “All of it. The cutting remark, the self-righteous folding of your hands—”

  “Self-righteous?! Gracious! And you call yourself a gentleman—”

  He laughed good and loud at that. His head went back and his eyes disappeared.

  And at that precise moment, Kit realized she was in serious, deep-water trouble.

  Handsome, dashing, charming man.

  With obvious secrets to hide.

  Curse him.

  Still chuckling, he gestured toward her. “Well, if I introduce myself now, it would smack of surrender. And I assure you, I never raise a white flag.”

  He did not, however, refute her accusation of his un-gentleman-ness.

  Interesting.

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Well, I thank you for rescuing me,” she said at last, not wanting to seem churlish. “‘Twas most fortunate.”

  He patted the horse’s neck again. Shrugged. “I am glad that today has been fortunate for one of us, at least.”

  Marc swallowed and let out a slow breath, continuing to rub the horse. Mostly to give the illusion of being busy.

  Wow. He was so utterly out of his depth.

  Ninja Pirate 1 had most definitely not prepared him for situations like this.

  Though who knew all the horse jumping training he had undergone for that western cattle-heist flick (The Quick and the Spurious—it was huge in India) would prove so useful.

  He had stopped the horse based entirely on muscle-memory and then turned . . .

  . . . to find this woman staring at him.

  He didn’t know what he had expected a nineteenth century woman to look like . . . but she was most certainly not it.

  She sat on the carriage bench swaddled in a cloak and seemingly twenty layers of clothing. Composed and steady, despite the undoubtedly frightening ordeal with her horse. She didn’t seem like a woman who could be easily rattled. More like a fierce huntress with her hair torn loose and fluttering wildly around her face, spilling onto her shoulders.

  Brown-ish hair . . . though it wasn’t exactly brown. It glinted with reds and golds too and curled everywhere.

  Definitely not simple brown, now that he considered it. He was sure Emme would have an exact word for the color. Auburn, maybe?

  And huge, wide-set brown eyes that somehow matched the color of her hair, golden and warm.

  So again, not quite brown really.

  They looked out inquisitively, framed between dark arching eyebrows and high cheekbones. He could tell she was tall, even seated.

  And then there was her feisty, quick wit.

  All in all, she reminded him vaguely of Katherine Hepburn in her prime. An Adam’s Rib Katharine Hepburn.

  Bottom line . . . she was stunning.

  Which was entirely unexpected. Why had he always assumed that women in the past would be more quiet and submissive? Somehow . . . less than women in the modern age.

  This woman was clearly none of those things.

  What had she said her name was? Miss Ashton?

  She clearly hadn’t appreciated his teasing refusal to introduce himself, but Marc was hesitant to tell anyone his name until he had chatted with Arthur.

  Though, would it hurt to tell her his first name? He hadn’t considered that. Was he being rude? He didn’t want to be rude. Particularly not to her.

  Just so . . . out of his depth. The sooner he found Arthur and had a crash course in nineteenth century etiquette, the better.

  She shifted on the carriage seat. “Well, as you are a friend . . .” She lingered on the word, rendering it so very, very dry.

  “Marc,” he said without thinking.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If we are to be friends, call me Marc. All my friends do.”

  Miss Ashton stilled, giving him a puzzled look. So maybe that hadn’t been the best idea after all. Women probably didn’t call unknown men by their first names. Ouch. What a terrible faux pas—

  “I am so sorry. I did not mean to . . . give offense—”

  “No, no need to apologize.” Miss Ashton waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I am not so missish as to stand by ceremony. I was just . . . surprised, is all. I do believe I heard a certain gentleman declare just moments ago that he never raises a white flag.” She raised both eyebrows. Challenging.

  “Perhaps this certain . . . gentleman is willing to make an exception for a friend.” Marc matched her challenging look.

  “Perhaps.” The lovely Miss Ashton tapped a gloved finger against her lips. “Though such turnabout smacks of a fickle nature. Not something I should wish in a friend.”

  Ah. Clever. She would be clever.

  “Not even two minutes into our friendship, and you are already taking me in hand, trying to reform me. Change my very nature—”

  “Precisely. How fortunate for you to recognize early on the value of our friendship.” Miss Ashton smiled, her expression a heady mixture of charm and wicked delight. “But if you are to be Marc to me, then I must be Kit to you.”

  “Kit.” Marc tried out her name, liking how it captured her. Bold and strong.

  “Marc,” she responded, tipping her head at him as if in greeting. Which he supposed they were finally doing.

  She paused and then continued. “Is that short for Marcus, perhaps?”

  She asked the question innocently enough, but there was a hesitancy in it. How could his given name mean anything to her?

  “Why, yes, in fact it is.”

  She nodded. “May I ask how you happened to be along the lane to Haldon Manor? I thought I had been introduced to all the gentlemen in Marfield.”

  Right. How to explain his presence here?

  Wait. How nineteenth century-ish did his language need to be in order for him to blend in? Damn . . . or, er, drat. He needed to pay more attention to the words leaving his mouth.

  He had been thinking about it as adopting a character, like he was doing research for an upcoming film project. Something suitably Jane Austen-ish, using his most posh British accent.

  So far she hadn’t seemed too surprised by his language.

  He could do this. He had read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies after all. He just needed to keep using fancy words. Lots of them.

  “I do not hail from Marfield, so it would be unlikely for us to have formed a prior acquaintance.”

  What a mouthful. Though he was quite proud of himself for it. Did it sound stuffy enough?

  He assessed her. She sat coolly composed in the carriage, pulling her cloak more tightly around herself.

&n
bsp; No reaction. That was good, right?

  “Naturally, I had surmised as much,” she said. “Yet how does a gentleman find himself upon a private lane without carriage or horse?”

  Yeah. That was an excellent question. How does a gentleman end up on a private lane without a carriage or horse? What logical explanation could he possibly give?

  Trust Miss Katharine Ashton—Kit, he mentally corrected—to be stunning, feisty and intelligent.

  Things he generally loved in a woman . . . under different circumstances. But for the moment . . .

  She stared at him intently, as if seeing right through his bumbling facade. Politely waiting for his reply.

  And then Marc hit upon the perfect explanation.

  “I fear I was robbed.”

  Kit looked gratifyingly shocked.

  “Robbed? Heavens! How terrifying!”

  “Yes, indeed it was.” Marc adopted his movie-mournful face—the one he perfected when playing a doctor dealing with terminal patients in The Docs of Hazard. “Highwaymen. Four of them. They came upon me as I traveled this morning, forced me off my horse at gunpoint and galloped off with all my possessions. At least they left me my clothing.” He gestured down at the greatcoat.

  Kit seemed concerned. Perhaps too concerned.

  “How horrid. What did the men look like?” She leaned forward, eager for his answer.

  “Uh . . . it is hard to say. They had kerchiefs tied around their faces and hats pulled down low,” Marc said and then instantly rethought his words.

  Is that how highwaymen dressed in 1814? Or was he just thinking of John Wayne westerns?

  Kit didn’t seem to find his description odd. She pursed her lips.

  “So would you say the men were fair or dark? Tall or short?”

  Why the follow-up questions?

  “I . . . hardly remember. A little of both I suppose.”

  She gave an exasperated huff. “How can the criminals be apprehended if you cannot provide an accurate description of them?”

  Damn.

  That was the last thing he needed. Innocent men being arrested because he fingered them in his fictional robbery.

  “Well, I shall think upon it carefully and see what I can remember. I would hate to provide a false description . . .” That, at least, was the truth.

  Again, the silence stretched a little too long.

  Her gaze narrowed. “I had thought you were perhaps an escapee from the circus.”