Beguiled

by Shannon Drake

  She nearly ran down the path from the house, pausing only when she was a good hundred feet away, then looking back with deep affection.

  The cottage was storybook perfect, with a thatched roof and a chimney that always seemed to trail a puff of smoke to somehow indicate the warmth to be found inside. Merry was an avid lover of flowers, so there were beautiful beds and little stone planters all around the entry. The aunts were quite elderly now, but still spry and cheerful and girlish in so many ways. Cocoa cured all ills, and if cocoa failed, there was tea and scones, everything fresh brewed and fresh baked. She had learned from her many tutors, but she had learned from the women, as well. They never sat still, or if they did, it was only to read or do needlework. They had taught her about industry, keeping busy, respecting the land, the virtues to be found in sweeping, and, most of all, they had taught her about unconditional love. She smiled, again thinking herself very lucky. Then her smile faded and her brow puckered, and she couldn’t help but wonder why?

  With a shake of her head, she turned again. Winding through stands of beautiful and ancient oaks, she followed her own well-worn path down to the stream that bubbled through the forest. There was an old layer of rock there that she had worn smooth over the years. It was situated next to the massive trunk of one of the old oaks that stood just at the water’s edge. There she could doff shoes and stockings, dangle her feet and draw—or write.

  She wondered what the newspaper had featured that day, but the aunts didn’t get their papers until late in the afternoon, so it would be some time before she would be able to see it. She held her sketchbook on her lap as she crawled onto the rock and went through her ritual, slipping off the offending shoes and hose, testing the chill of the water with a toe, then leaning back against the oak, her pad clutched in her arms.

  She closed her eyes, summoning the images she wanted to convey.

  First…the village. That scene was the most important.

  Unfortunately, thoughts of the engagement and her absent fiancé kept intruding.

  The village…

  The people gathered in the square. The cries…

  Down with the monarchy!

  Images passed quickly through her mind. Thane Grier, his pose casual as he watched what was going on.

  Then Sir Angus Cunningham, trying to calm the crowd, and the woman…the veiled woman in black, crying out. Lord Wittburg at Sir Angus’s side, and last, Sir Andrew Harrington. The crowd at last beginning to listen, starting to break up as Shelby began to drive the horses forward.

  And then…

  The highwayman.

  “Dreaming of me?”

  The question—suddenly spoken in a deep and amused masculine voice in the middle of the forest, where the only sounds should have been the bubbling of the water and the sweet song of the birds—was so startling that she jerked up and nearly lost her balance on the rock. As it was, her sketchbook flew out of her arms and her pencil came perilously close to being lost forever in the stream.

  “You!” she gasped, stunned. Should she scream? Jump up? Run?

  It was indeed him. He was dressed as he had been when he had held up the carriage: black breeches, unbleached poet’s shirt, knee-high riding boots—and black silk mask. One foot was planted on the rock, his elbow upon his knee, and she had to wonder just how long he had been standing there, watching her.

  “Yes, me,” he said.

  He rescued the pencil and set it and the sketchbook safely aside, then took a seat next to her on the rock.

  She realized he was alone. And that he intended no harm. Apparently he had come to find her. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had done so before during the past week.

  “Is this a private rock?” he inquired.

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Is it your land, then?” he asked.

  “No. It belongs to Lord Stirling.”

  “Then we are both trespassing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous—I’m welcome on his land. You, however…”

  He laughed, perfectly comfortable as he leaned against the oak. “Actually,” he informed her, “this land does not belong to Lord Stirling.”

  “Indeed?”

  He pointed to the trail. “Up to there…it is his. But where we sit right now…if I’m not mistaken, we are on land that belongs to Lord Farrow, Earl of Warren.”

  She stared back at him as coolly as she could, considering the fact that her heart was pounding too quickly, her blood flowing with a shimmering heat.

  “Well, I believe Lord Farrow would welcome me and allow me this position, while he would certainly send you packing. Or rather, have you arrested.”

  He shrugged. “Quite possibly.” He stared at her, still deeply amused. She noted his eyes. Blue-gray, they had the ability to be light, to be dark, to appear cloaked in shadow. Mercurial, they changed within seconds, as swiftly as his moods.

  “You are a fool, and what you’re doing here is beyond me. You’ll notice I’m carrying nothing more valuable than a sketchbook. Shouldn’t you be out on the road somewhere, assaulting more innocents?”

  “Dear Miss Grayson, please don’t ever fool yourself that I assault only innocents,” he said. “Actually, I rather like it here. And a hardworking highwayman does deserve a rest now and then.”

  “Not on my rock.”

  “We’ve established the fact that it’s neither your rock nor mine,” he said lazily.

  She knew she should simply get up and walk away. He seemed to be carrying no weapons, and his horse was nowhere in sight.

  He gazed her way, stretching out more comfortably, one hand behind his head. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

  “How do you know that?” she demanded sharply.

  “I read.”

  “How commendable. You could certainly find real employment, then.”

  He shrugged, looking back to the water. “There was a whole page about you, Miss Grayson, second page of the paper. You came after news of a murder, an article that all but skewers the queen and another that defends her. An excellent article, really,” he mused. His smile deepened. “The news of your engagement took precedence over the news that you were held up by the highwayman. Sad, but true.”

  “I told you that you were no more than petty riffraff,” she informed him, and yet her mind was reeling.

  An excellent article, really.

  That? From a highwayman?

  “So you will soon be Lady Farrow.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Aren’t you eager to become a countess?” he demanded dryly.

  She stared at him. To her own surprise she said, “Did the article mention that the groom-to-be was not in attendance?”

  “Yes, it did. Churlish of him, don’t you think?”

  She looked away, shaking her head. “To tell you the truth, it doesn’t matter in the least.”

  “You were not hurt by him?”

  “How on earth could I be hurt by someone I don’t know? Indeed, I knew nothing about the engagement until it was announced.”

  “Brian…Camille…never told you?” he demanded, seeming quite startled.

  “Brian? Camille? You’re dreadfully familiar, you know,” she told him.

  “I beg your pardon. Allow me to rephrase. Neither Lord nor Lady Stirling ever told you what was to be your fate?”

  She burst out laughing. “My fate?”

  “Well, it is your fate, isn’t it?”

  She looked out at the water, determined not to share her personal feelings with an outlaw, no matter how charming.

  “Fate is what we make of it, isn’t it?” she murmured.

  “They never told you,” he said, dropping down beside her on the rock.

  “Is this really any of your business?” she demanded.

  He smiled, shrugged. She realized that their shoulders were touching as they sat side by side, and though she knew she should have sounded an alarm or at least run away the moment she saw him, she was actually qui
te pleased to be sitting as she was. Content. No, not content, actually. Exhilarated. She enjoyed arguing with him, and she didn’t mind his proximity at all. For an outlaw, he had a rather seductive scent. Apparently his line of work did not prevent him from bathing or keeping his clothing clean.

  “I am a student of human nature, and quite curious,” he told her.

  “It was simply one of those nights,” she murmured. “They would have told me—if it hadn’t been for you,” she charged him, angry enough to jab his upper arm with her fist.

  “I wasn’t even there!” he protested, rubbing the spot where she had punched him.

  “When we reached the castle, Shelby was in a state, and therefore Brian was in a state, so he rode out—and you are extremely lucky he didn’t catch you, but mark my words, you had best be careful, he may still do so.”

  “Believe me,” he said softly, but smiling still, “I never underestimate the Earl of Carlyle.”

  “Be sure that you don’t.”

  “I am warned. So…still, no one told you?”

  “Then I had to get ready for the event, and an Inspector Turner was in the kitchen, and by then, guests were arriving. So, thanks to you, the Earl of Warren—who seems to be an entirely decent man—got to see his prospective daughter-in-law gape and stare and probably look quite like an idiot when the grand engagement was announced.”

  “You don’t sound pleased at the prospect of your marriage.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Why not? Most young women in your position would be thrilled by the opportunity to become a countess.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “It’s hardly your business.”

  To her surprise, he caught her waving hand. She had forgotten the ring on her finger. His own hand was clad in a knit glove that left the fingertips free. She was surprised by her own lack of protest when he shifted his lazy position to sit up and study the ring.

  “Nice,” he told her.

  She did snatch her hand away, then, though to her distress, she felt her cheeks reddening. “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon not discuss the situation with an outlaw.”

  “I’ve heard,” he said, ignoring her words, “that this secret agreement was made between Lord Stirling and Lord Farrow years ago.”

  “Must you?” she objected.

  “So all these years, you’ve been groomed to be the perfect countess. Voice like a lark, dances like an angel and so on.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Perhaps dancing wouldn’t be such a bad occupation for you. Better than robbing carriages.”

  “What makes you think I can’t dance, Miss Grayson?”

  He leapt with swift agility to his feet. Elaborately, he bowed to her.

  She stared at him, then started to laugh.

  He straightened. “I am a dangerous outlaw, you know. You should not laugh at me.”

  “If I considered you dangerous, I’d be long gone by now.”

  “I see. You find me amusing?” He reached for her hand, drawing her to her feet despite herself. She was suddenly close—his scent was provocative—wondering at her own sanity. But he wasn’t dangerous. Not to her. Somehow she knew it.

  She smiled, not even protesting his hold. “Yes, I find you quite…diverting,” she informed him.

  “Then dance with me.”

  “There is no music.”

  “Hum.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Fine. I shall hum.”

  And he did, a quite passable Viennese waltz, and before she knew it, they were dancing swiftly through the copse. She felt the close contact of his body, and she thought she had never been so in tune with her partner’s every movement. His hands were sure, and he led with confidence and strength, but never too much power. She loved his touch, the way they moved, the way the earth felt beneath her bare feet. The air seemed to rush around her with a fresh, clean sweetness. His thighs were hard, muscled, his whole body vital and alive.

  She was laughing, finding it quite absurd, dancing in the forest with an outlaw. They were close, their faces nearly touching. His mouth was so very close to hers….

  The reality of what she was doing suddenly frightened her. She wasn’t at all certain she could agree to a marriage, not if she wished to live her own dream, but this behavior was certainly a dishonor to those who cared for her.

  Her laughter faded. She pulled away. This was indeed absurd. She should be ashamed of herself.

  “I can’t do this,” she said softly.

  “Dance in the forest? Ah, that’s right. You are an engaged woman.”

  “I owe nothing to Lord Farrow’s son.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t even know him.”

  “Ah.”

  She shook her head. “You’re a criminal,” she informed him.

  “But a criminal with a newspaper,” he told her.

  She forgot everything else. “Where?” she demanded.

  He hesitated. “I’ll bring it.”

  He disappeared down one of the trails, and she waited, uncertain, her heart thundering. His horse must be near.

  He returned with the day’s paper, and she snatched it from him with a delighted cry.

  Last Sunday, the first piece by A. Anonymous had run. The paper had been just as he had described it, with the article about the murder of Giles Brandon and the opinion piece that had been Brandon’s last.

  And then there had been the defense of the monarchy, by A. Anonymous.

  Today there was another article on the front page by A. Anonymous.

  She avidly read the piece that reminded people again that the anti-monarchists themselves might well be responsible for the murders—which were, sadly, still unsolved. When she turned the page, she saw there was another mention of her impending marriage.

  And after that…

  An article about the highwayman. He had struck several carriages throughout the week, but instead of bringing down terrible rancor, he had enchanted an elderly noble woman. She had been delighted to discover that the ring he had taken had wound up in the hands of the Victorian Ladies Society for the Betterment of Our Sisters. She had paid a ransom for her ring, which had really been a donation, and thereby, financed a day’s free meal in a churchyard.

  “Good God, you’re fast,” he said as she turned pages.

  She afforded him a quick glance. “I rarely had other children around. Reading became…my companion,” she murmured. “You’re being too modest, by the way. Your adventures are gaining popularity. This lady does not exactly say so, but I believe she is all but begging you to hold her up again.”

  He shrugged.

  She had barely realized it when he sat down close beside her on her rock again. It seemed entirely natural. Their arms were side by side, and he was leaning in, studying the pages along with her. She was aware once more of his scent and the flush of heat he aroused in her. She straightened self-consciously.

  “A. Anonymous,” he muttered. “There’s a dead man for you.”

  “What?” She frowned fiercely. “I thought you were a bandit, but a loyal British bandit who honored the queen.”

  “A. Anonymous’s identity will be discovered. And once that happens, don’t you think the anti-monarchists will put him on a murder list?”

  “I think the man has every right to speak out. And you! You say you are the queen’s man, even if a rogue. You should be applauding him.”

  “I’m simply saying that he’d best make sure his byline remains in the paper. Or perhaps, for his own good, he should cease writing.”

  “Perhaps he cannot do so. Perhaps he feels it necessary for such an article to be written and published, even if he must remain anonymous.”

  “The paper pays for such political essays,” the highwayman pointed out.

  “Maybe A. Anonymous is smart enough to have the checks sent to a post box.”

  “And don’t you think the killers will know that? They will have their ways to discover the truth. Perhaps they�
��ll get into the newspaper files somehow, find out where the checks are sent—and wait.”

  She felt her blood grow cold, and she shivered. He frowned instantly. “Are you cold? I have my cape…back with the horse,” he said ruefully.

  “No, no…I have a cape. There,” she murmured, pointing to where it had fallen to the ground. He leapt to his feet, procured the cape and slipped it around her shoulders. As he did so, there was a moment of closeness that seemed incredibly sweet.

  She drew away. “You speak about the danger to A. Anonymous, but what about yourself? Eventually someone will kill you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “You’re a criminal, for God’s sake. And criminals who continue along a path such as yours are eventually undone.”

  Beneath the mask, his lips curled. “But I am not a common criminal, at least. I have had some training in etiquette.”

  “Indeed. And therefore there can be no earthly excuse for the road you have chosen.”

  She turned away from him, walking to the spot where she had left her stockings and shoes.

  “Don’t go,” he said, suddenly very serious.

  “I must. And don’t…don’t come here again. I’ve told you, Brian Stirling is a dangerous man.”

  “You don’t believe it, but so am I.”

  “He is the Earl of Carlyle.”

  “And I am a thief.”

  “I can’t be here with you,” she said firmly. He was going to touch her again, she thought, her mind running foolishly to the thought that it was almost as if…as if she longed to slip back into his arms, feel the brush of his fingers, let him lift her chin…and place his lips upon hers.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Wait!” he called.

  Despite herself, she hesitated.

  He came to the tree where she stood and set his palm upon it, leaning toward her. There was a sudden seriousness in his eyes that gave her pause.

  “I must admit, I have had a passion—born of the direst need—for my…career as an outlaw. But if I weren’t a criminal, my dear Miss Grayson, do you think you would have offered me a place, however slight, in your life?”