by Sharon Page
He’d gambled on playing the highwayman on the well-traveled road leading into Brighton, where the ton retreated in the hot summer months. The climate suited him and the risk was high, throwing him into challenges he enjoyed. He’d been able to have his men watch Grace, who was staying in Brighton with her sister Venetia.
He’d gambled that Grace would be traveling at some point—perhaps returning to London.
Horatio arriving at full gallop was a sign his gamble had paid off.
Was she traveling with just her sisters? One of her powerful brothers-in-law?
His men thought him insane. He probably was.
Lucy gave a loud, theatrical moan of pleasure from the other side of his door. Trying to torture him, he knew. Blood surged to his rigid cock in answer, but he was thinking of making Grace moan like that.
Devlin smashed his fist into the plaster wall as his sheet slid down his hips. Hell, he had a damn good life here. Why was it no longer enough?
My dearest granddaughter…
The elegant handwriting jiggled before Grace’s eyes as the carriage wheel dropped into a rut. A wave of nausea rose as she focused on the words, clutching the seat to steady herself.
For so many years, I have wanted to write to you, to make myself known to you, but I could not. The earl would not hear of it. I believe it is foolish to keep only anger and resentment against one’s heart for comfort, but there are those that believe it far more foolish to embrace forgiveness. Is not forgiveness only for those of great strength? But I have learned, in the decades that have passed, that anger may burn hot but it gives cold comfort.
Silver now graces my hair, and I have long since forgotten what it is to hold a child. It is in these days that I yearn less for the embittering satisfaction of being the one in the right, and more for the joy of seeing my eyes in a young woman’s face, my smile in a girl’s happiness.
Would you come to me, Grace? I wish to see you, while I am able. If you are willing to grant me this, to reunite, I warn that it cannot be done at my home. I wish to meet you where the past is not of significance, and where the future surrounds us. How tragic it is that a woman cannot meet her granddaughter in her rooms, but that is the madness of my life, and I long since learned to adapt and not battle. On the surface, it seems that I dare not defy the earl, but women do, in subtle ways, and it is so much more pleasant to keep peace.
Come to me for the 15thof August. Lord Avermere has invited me to his lovely house on the Isle of Wight, very near Cowes. I have made him aware of my wishes—and so you will be admitted and you may join me here. Such a dear man, Avermere has readily agreed. Please come, Grace. For I have seen you in London, and I have seen in you the woman I once was, and I wish, so very much, to know your mind and your heart, and to do so before it is too late.
Yours,
Sophia Augusta, Countess of Warren
Directions follow below
Grace touched a smudge of ink. Had her grandmother’s tear made that smear of grayish ink? She wiped at her own cheeks, brushing away the drops there. The pressure of her thumbs had crinkled the paper and she carefully smoothed the small creases. This was the letter she had yearned for since her childhood.
It was worth every lie she had told to slip away from the house Venetia and Marcus had taken in Brighton. And both her sisters, Maryanne and Venetia, were so caught up in their children and the social whirl of the seaside town they really had not noticed her leave.
They thought she was off to visit Lady Prudence at a house party close to Worthing. A lie, but they didn’t know that Prudence despised her. Anyway, she was with the coachman and a groom, so her sisters had no reason to worry over her.
Grace lifted the letter and cradled it in her hands.
Why didn’t she just tell her sisters the truth?
Now that she was the sister-in-law to two both wealthy and powerful titled men, she moved in a different world—she lived in the world of the Countess of Warren. Three times she had seen her grandmother: at Lady Chatsworth’s musicale, where she had seen how beautiful her grandmother still was, with her upswept silver hair and patrician profile; then, at the theatre, where Grace had been certain her grandmother had turned her opera glasses onto Marcus’s box and had searched out a glimpse of her granddaughters; and once at Lady Collings’ ball, the most significant event of the Season for unmarried girls. For one fleeting moment, Grace had been certain her grandmother had smiled at her across the ballroom. She’d blinked in surprise, only to find she had lost the moment, and her grandmother had risen and left.
And now the letter.
Each time she read it, a different emotion claimed her. Hope. Fear. Happiness. Excitement. Sheer, unadulterated terror.
She was a Hamilton woman, and she had to keep up the family tradition of meeting fear and terror head on.
Except, of course, for the fear of telling her plans to her sisters.
Grace rapped the ceiling to signal the coachman—one of Marcus’s best—to pick up speed. Delays had plagued her, the problem with creating a tissue of lies. First, Venetia had waylaid her with questions; then Maryanne had bluntly asked why she would be traveling to visit Lady Prudence when they never appeared to even have a conversation in public.
But then both her sisters had become distracted by their children. Maryanne’s baby, Charles, proved a headstrong soul plagued with colic, happy only when Maryanne’s husband held him up on his broad shoulder. His poor lordship could not even sit down without the baby wailing.
And Venetia had announced she was expecting another child, with her first, the heir, only six months old, which of course disproved the belief that feeding a child from the breast might delay another pregnancy.
Something Grace would never experience.
The carriage rattled, jerking Grace back to the here and now. They were traveling along a quiet stretch of roadway and she settled back to fold her grandmother’s letter. She had it half tucked into her reticule when the carriage suddenly skidded and the coachman shouted.
Her reticule spilled to the floor and Grace clung to the seat for dear life. The wheels slid across the dry dirt and the horses whinnied in shock. As the coach skidded in a circle, Grace caught her breath.
It was going to overturn!
She bit her lip, drawing blood, as the coach tilted to the right, then tottered back on the left wheels.
“Bleedin’ Jesus!” the coachman roared, and the horses screamed in protest.
Rocking madly from one set of wheels to the other, the coach’s movements threw Grace to the floor. Her knees banged the boards and the seat smacked her in the forehead.
She curled up into a ball, praying this would be the best way to fall, when the coach slammed back onto all four wheels and stayed blessedly still—well, relatively still.
Her fingers gouged into and tore expensive velvet as she pulled herself to her knees. “Ow!” The pressure on them made her want to vomit, so she struggled to get onto her feet, her arms splayed over the seat. Her head throbbed and she tasted blood on her lip.
What in blazes had happened?
Dazed, with her hand daintily pressed to her bruised head, she forced her wobbly legs to straighten. Grace gaped out the window, clutching the sill.
Marcus’s grays pawed the ground and fought the confines of their traces, and she guessed the coachman held hard on the reins. The carriage was tilted across the road on the diagonal, and the window gave her a clear view of the lane ahead.
A white horse blocked the road. Atop the huge beast, a highwayman lounged, controlling the magnificent animal with his thighs and casually leveling two pistols at her carriage. He was masked, with a black silk square fashioned into a kerchief to cover his mouth and a powdered wig beneath a black tricorn. A long coat in the style of the last century stretched across wide shoulders and clung to a well-built chest—a coat of shimmering dark blue silk, lavishly embroidered and decorated with inches of French lace at cuffs and collar. Beneath the sun, its buttons spar
kled, suggesting jewels, and a large, clear stone winked in the man’s earlobe—a diamond earring, Grace guessed.
Didn’t highwaymen shout “Stand and deliver” or some such thing? It appeared this one had merely cantered his horse in front of a racing carriage and pointed his two pistols at the driver, then waited, without flinching, for the carriage to stop.
A branch cracked. From beneath the shadows of the trees, four armed men rode out, all wearing the same hats and wigs, all with lace peeking out at their sleeves and throats, all with silk tied over their noses and mouths.
They rode to surround the carriage.
She wished she had thought to bring a pistol. Her sisters’ adventures should have taught her that a woman most definitely needed to arm herself.
But could she really shoot that enormous man who had audaciously stopped their carriage? He had almost caused an accident—he could have killed them all. But to shoot him in cold blood—was she even capable?
Then Grace’s blood turned cold and her heart seemed to freeze. A devil-may-care highwayman with broad shoulders, who was now tugging down the silk kerchief that covered his face….
Even before the disguise dropped, she knew.
Devlin Sharpe.
With his mouth exposed, she knew at once she was right. Even after two years, she knew that dimple and the full, sensuous, primal shape of his mouth.
“Come down, sweetheart,” he called out, clinching it with his deep unforgettable growl. “I’d like to see you.”
His captivating voice played havoc with her heartbeat and her good sense and she found her hand at the door handle before her wits intervened.
What did he want?
Could this be a coincidence?
Did Devlin really mean to rob her?
His kerchief hung around his neck, and his face was darkly tanned, a startling contrast to that snow-white wig.
He looked like a dangerous rake of fantasy. But what on earth did he think he was doing?
“Come down, Miss,” he called. “I’d hate for anyone to get a pistol ball in the heart.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Grace pushed the door wide with one hand, hauling up her skirts with the other. It might not have been wise, but she jumped to the road, which was at least dry. So much so that choking dust swirled up as she landed, and she sputtered.
Leaving his other armed men, Devlin nudged his horse’s flanks with his thighs and the enormous white steed obeyed his master’s subtle command and paced toward where she stood.
Brilliant green eyes met hers. Sensual lips kicked up in a smile.
He had saved her—she would never forget that. Neither Lord Wesley nor her cousin Wynsome had ever breathed a word about what had happened at the house party. She did not know why he merely sat there atop his horse, towering over her, studying her.
And why he was here, robbing her at gunpoint? She’d never thought the man would presume on intimacy enough to hold her up!
It irritated her. So she pointed to the cases lashed to the back of the carriage. “I’ve barely any valuables with me. There is one pouch of jewels in my blue case—you are welcome to those.”
The horse took a graceful step closer. A pure white beast, and she was surprised he did not use a black mount, one that would disappear at night in the shadows of the surrounding fields and forests. And why would he be foolish enough to hold her up in daylight?
Did he want to be caught and hung?
Now the horse stood so close she could smell its sweat and hair. She had to gaze up toward the sun to look at Devlin.
“I do not want your money, Grace.” He bent to whisper the words, which startled her, for they were her words, thrown at him two years before. Did he feel as insulted by her offer as she had felt over his? Sunlight fell upon his face, slicing across his high cheekbones and blade of a nose. She had forgotten his exact features—she had forced herself to forget. Her heart gave a tiny thump. How long would it take to forget his face this time?
Her fingertips tingled. She remembered touching his face. The wonderful sensations of caressing him. She remembered exploring the solid ridge of his jaw, the teasing prickle of stubble growing there. The startling sharp ridges of his cheekbones and the softness of the skin below. The velvety caress of his brows and lashes—
She shook away those treacherous thoughts. “What do you want of me? I have somewhere to be today. You are delaying me. If you don’t want my meager jewels, let me go past.”
“Don’t be so cold, my love.” He spoke loudly now and he leered at her. She heard the snicker of his men. Marcus’s servants stayed wisely silent, with pistols trained on them.
Obviously Devlin did not want anyone to know they knew each other. She would rather die than have these men know what they’d done.
One left his position to ride closer to Devlin. “Do ye want me to get her boxes?”
Devlin shook his head. “We’ll take the entire coach.”
He worked with thieves. With armed men willing to kill for money. He was not a champion, he was a lawless killer.
Fear, cold and paralyzing, flooded through Grace’s body.
She had to run—
But had no chance of escaping the horses.
She had no weapon—
Would Devlin really be willing to kill her for money?
Grace froze completely. She didn’t know. This was a man she had bedded, that she had lovingly, deliciously, willingly bedded…and she truly did not know.
She took a step back but he merely grinned. “You, my sweet, are the valuables.”
She heard a cry of anger from the groom. What if one of Marcus’s servants acted in desperation, thinking to save her, and got shot? What if she really was in danger?
No one was going to die in her place.
She aimed a fierce scowl at Devlin. “Touch me, rogue, and you will regret it.”
“Cooperate, lass, and I won’t harm a fragile hair on your precious head.”
What would he do if she turned on her heel and stalked back into the carriage? She had no choice but to gaze deeply into his eyes, into the dark blue depths, and try to guess.
She did notice his quick breaths. The rapid rise and fall of his chest.
He was excited by this.
By what? The nearness to a ransom? Or memories of sweaty sex? What did he want?
She had to find courage. Two years had passed since she’d made a mess of her life—two years in which she had gone from being penniless to possessing a dowry that made men weak at the knees. She’d had the courage to live a lie with even her family. So, she leaned forward until her gloves touched the withers of his huge horse and vehemently whispered, “I do not want to play this game!”
His warm, strong arm snaked around her waist and he straightened, drawing her up with him. Without effort, he deposited her on the horse in front of him. Perched on the edge of her bottom on a lumpy bit of the horse’s spine, she teetered.
And clutched at his chest.
Her fingers wrapped around his lapels and clung tight. “Put me—”
“Eventually, Grace. But for now, you’re mine.”
The servants shouted in protest, but Devlin dug in his spurs as he wheeled his horse around. Grace clutched tight to his arms as the horse flowed over the ground like a streaking bird, hooves thundering.
She was too scared to jump.
And too damned excited.
“Was it a coincidence that you chose my carriage to rob?”
Grace asked the question to the shadowy lane stretched out before her, knowing that Devlin would not answer. Why should he? He was the one with the weapon.
Devlin held her steady with one large hand cupping her waist. His chest brushed against her back and the hard diamond buttons were a caress even through her summer dress and gauzy pelisse. His scent drove her mad—she’d endured over an hour of breathing it in. An hour trying to fight the memories. How his skin tasted when she’d slicked her tongue over it. The erotic flavor of his mouth.<
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The way his sweat smelled and the ripe, potent, tang of his come…
Her rump and thighs hurt from the constant bumping of the horse—for all Devlin had seductively suggested she relax, she still perched on his horse as stiff as a board. Dappled shadows danced over her sprigged clothes and his gloved hand as Devlin walked his horse along a country lane. Overhead, the tree branches knitted together, and leaves whispered in the hot breeze.
Grace had stolen peeks at her sister Maryanne’s manuscripts—she’d been surprised to discover her sister also wrote erotic stories and had tried to help their impoverished family by publishing them.
One story had intrigued her and she’d read it again and again, until the copy had worn corners and smudged text—one in which a naïve and innocent girl was sent to the secluded home of her unknown guardian. Though the handsome and dangerous peer had been most domineering and had subjected the heroine to all sorts of erotic torture—even a scene that involved a glass of sherry and wine-flavored syllabub and had left Grace frustrated for days—he eventually became the shy heroine’s conquest. The master had succumbed to love, and power had shifted precipitously to the heroine’s shoulders. But even when the heroine had not known that her guardian would become her great love, even while he tied her up in all sorts of fancy and frightening ways, the heroine had actually been sexually aroused by her life as a prisoner.
Grace shifted, wincing as her sore bottom found an even more painful place on which to rest.
“Not long now, love,” Devlin promised.
She swallowed hard as he spurred his horse. A story was one thing. Reality was entirely different. Devlin’s armed men followed, along with Marcus’s carriage and servants, the poor servants tied up.
She was being kidnapped.
Oh, he had denied it—for a while—then he’d refused to answer any of her questions and she’d subjected him to stony silence for the last horrid hour.
The truth was that she was his hostage. And it was not arousing at all. Not at all. Absolutely not.
And if he tried to tie her up, he was going to lose an eye. Or one of his family jewels.
