Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  Then a man appeared, drifting out of the gloom like a phantom, his head bowed, his face hidden beneath the brim of a black tricorne. He reached out to her. His leather-gloved fingers touched her cheek, traced her lips, then cupped her chin, lingering there… trembling. With longing… or fear?

  No. She turned away from him. They’ll find me. They’re looking for me.

  He began to raise his head. She could almost see his face…

  But it was only a dream.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and for an instant thought she had tumbled from one dream into another. Darkness surrounded her, but this wasn’t as complete and terrifying as the other had been.

  She blinked, her eyes gradually adjusting to the light from candles that burned somewhere to her right. She swallowed and found her throat tight, her lips dry. She was in a bed, soft sheets beneath her, warm blankets covering her. Her head felt strangely light, her limbs heavy.

  Then the pain hit her, a sting in her left thigh and a sharp, burning sensation just below her ribs. She inhaled sharply and her hand moved to still the throbbing in her side. Her fingers met not blood but the softness of a clean cotton shirt, and beneath it a bandage. Moving her limbs, she discovered that she wore nothing else—only a man’s shirt, much too large and long to be one of those Nell had specially made for her.

  She squinted to bring her surroundings into focus. She lay in a massive bed, its canopy and covers of deep blue satin. Gingerly turning her head, she peered at the room’s other furnishings, trying to discern where she was. She could make out a wardrobe, writing desk and chair, and a washstand, all of dark wood, carved along heavy, masculine lines with little decoration.

  Elizabeth’s heart pounded. She was in a bedroom—a man’s bedroom.

  Oh Lawks, how had she come to be here?

  She remembered the guards chasing her, the shot that knocked her from her horse… but nothing more.

  The door opened. A tall, male figure filled the entry and light spilled in with him. He made no move to come closer.

  She tried twice to speak before she managed to form coherent words. “W-who are you?”

  The man bowed ever so slightly, and in the shifting light she could see that he had blond hair. “Quinn, my lady, the butler,” came the soft reply. Crossing the room, he placed a pitcher on the washstand.

  “Whose butler?”

  Instead of answering, he left, closing the door behind him. Elizabeth felt dizzy, her head spinning. She tried to raise herself to her elbows, but couldn’t. The pain in her side stopped her. Where was she? And who the devil was her rescuer… or her captor?

  She only had to wait a moment for her answer, because the door opened again—and this time the man who entered was carrying a candle that lit his darkly handsome features.

  “You,” Elizabeth breathed, even the throbbing of her wound forgotten as the Earl of Darkridge crossed the room and came to stand beside the bed. He wore only a pair of black breeches and a loose white shirt that was half unbuttoned, revealing the muscles of his chest and neck in a stark, unsettling display.

  He looked down at her with an unreadable gaze. “How do you feel?”

  At the sound of his deep voice, the frightful words Georgiana had used to describe Marcus Worthington cascaded through Elizabeth’s thoughts. Murderer. Madman. Killed his own father. And now he knew her identity. He knew she was Blackerby Swift.

  But as he stood there, calmly awaiting her answer, another image formed in her mind. After she had fallen from her horse… Marcus Worthington was the highwayman she had seen unmasked!

  She knew in that moment that her earlier guess, which had seemed so impossible, had been right. The dark eyes, the commanding voice, the tall, broad-shouldered form were the same! The Earl of Darkridge was the notorious highwayman known as the Midnight Raider.

  She had no doubt that if he removed that shirt, she would see a newly healed bullet wound on his left arm, where she had shot him the night they first met at Hounslow Heath.

  Licking her dry lips, she decided it was best not to let on that she knew his secret identity. At least until she found out what he wanted with her. Rather than answering his question, she asked one of her own. “Are you going to turn me in?”

  He arched one mahogany-colored eyebrow. “Turn you in for what?”

  “I… I think we both know, my lord,”

  His expression remained guarded as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Do we?”

  Elizabeth was suddenly all too aware of her own indecent state of undress. She also concluded that this was his house, his room, and his bed. The idea that he might have put her in his own bedchamber rather than a guest room added a new skip of fear to her already racing heart. “Stop it. You know who I am.”

  The candle in his hand flickered, casting a shaft of golden light over his upper body. The glow brought the hard angles of his face into sharp relief and highlighted the scar on his jaw.

  After a long moment, he nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. “You’re right. I do know who you are, Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley. Or Blackerby Swift. Or whatever you choose to call yourself. I could hand you over to the authorities right now and collect a very tidy sum.”

  Elizabeth stiffened with panic, yet she could hear the tone of an offer in his voice. “Or?”

  “The alternative depends entirely on you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He paused, as if considering his offer carefully. “Agree to cease your attacks on Charles Montaigne’s coaches, and I might be persuaded not to turn you in.”

  “Why?” The mention of Montaigne’s name made Elizabeth forget her vulnerability for a moment. “Why do you want me to stop? Do you work for him?”

  He uttered a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Hardly. I have plans of my own for Charles Montaigne. You are interfering with those plans.”

  “What is Montaigne to you? Or is it his money you want?”

  He didn’t reply. Elizabeth frowned. She was obviously not going to get an answer, but she could guess what the scoundrel wanted. Perhaps he had some quarrel with Montaigne and meant to kill him. Or perhaps he had run through his own fortune and needed funds to pay for his expensive town house, his fine clothes, and whatever dissolute amusements a disreputable nobleman might enjoy.

  Regardless of his reasons, she was not about to let him stop her. Not when Montaigne’s money could be put to far better use for London’s poor.

  She lowered her gaze. “And if I do not agree to your terms?”

  “Turning you over to the authorities is not the only way I could accomplish my ends,” he pointed out coolly.

  Elizabeth’s imagination filled in the unspoken part of his threat. She was entirely at his mercy. He could kill her right now, and Blackerby Swift would simply disappear.

  But if he meant to kill her, he had already had ample time and opportunity. He had, in fact, saved her life… or had he?

  The bullet wound in her side throbbed. She winced and pressed her hand over it, remembering again that Georgiana had called Marcus Worthington a murderer and a madman. “Was it you who shot me?”

  “No.”

  From his expression and his terse answer, he appeared to take offense at that question.

  So he had saved her life. He could have left her out there, alone, bleeding, unconscious. Without his help, she would have died.

  Elizabeth decided to gamble and play the one card she held.

  “Lord Darkridge, I don’t believe you intend to murder a defenseless woman—not after going to so much trouble to rescue her. And if you turn me in, or in any way reveal my identity, I will reveal yours.”

  “What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed.

  “I… I saw you.” She took a painfully deep breath and hurried on before she could change her mind. “When the guard tore off your mask, I saw you. And I’m willing to guess that you have a fresh bullet wound on your left arm, from our encounter on Hounslow Heath three weeks ago. You’re the Midnight Raider, and
you’re much more valuable than I am.”

  She had expected anger or astonishment at her revelation.

  Instead, he laughed. “What an absurd accusation. If you think to save yourself with that wild tale, think again.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You have no evidence. I, on the other hand, have your pistol, your disguise—”

  “I could claim I never saw them before.” She tried to think quickly. “I could say you shot me and concocted the whole tale to get the four hundred pounds reward. I have witnesses who would attest to my good character. Who would stand up for you?”

  Elizabeth saw a flash of some emotion in his eyes, and hurried on before he could interrupt, trying to make him see the consequences of turning her in. “No one will believe that a woman could possibly be Blackerby Swift. But with your reputation, I think the authorities would be quick to believe that you’re the outlaw known as the Midnight Raider. Even if they don’t, do you really want that question raised in public? Imagine how quickly the gossips would spread such a rumor.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus glared down at her, feeling a maddening combination of annoyance, astonishment and admiration at the way she had just neatly removed the teeth from his threat.

  He should have known that a lady daring enough to become a successful highwayman would also be clever enough to puzzle out his identity.

  “You, madam,” he informed her, “are in no position to tell anyone anything.”

  For the first time in years, he wasn’t at all sure what his next move should be. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one he disliked intensely. He was not going to let her have Charles Montaigne’s money—and he wasn’t going to split it with her. He needed every shilling to buy back the Worthington estates, to restore his family name and honor.

  Yet he couldn’t afford to have a reckless little beauty with a pistol in her petticoats blathering his identity all over London.

  “Well, my lord?” Her eyes shone with defiance despite her precarious situation. “You know who I am. I know who you are. What do you propose we do about one another?”

  Marcus scowled at her. “What I should have done was left you on that blasted hillside.”

  He leaned down to set the candle on the bedside table. As he moved, his shirt gaped open, baring his chest. The scant color in her cheeks fled as he loomed over her, yet she returned his gaze steadily. She didn’t even flinch.

  Her courage was as impressive as her beauty. The latter—or was it the former?—was doing strange things to his heartbeat.

  “Why did you help me?” she whispered, her gaze never leaving his.

  “I wish I knew,” he heard himself saying.

  The scents of the forest and the night wind still clung to her hair. The open neck of the shirt she wore revealed the hollow of her throat. Some devilish part of his brain urged him to lean down… to find out how soft her skin would feel beneath his lips if he kissed her, just there.

  He struggled to force his mind back to the problem at hand: he had stopped Blackerby Swift’s raids for the moment, but what was he going to do with her now?

  This close to her, he couldn’t help noticing how pale she was, and the lines of strain that marred her lovely features. The wound inflicted by Montaigne’s guards wasn’t serious enough to kill her, but she had lost a lot of blood. And despite her show of bravery, she had to be in pain. She needed rest, not more interrogation from him.

  Marcus pushed himself to his feet and turned away from the bed, jaw clenched in frustration. Since when did he make decisions based on a woman’s delicate feelings, or anyone’s needs but his own?

  “So, my lord?” she asked softly. “Shall we keep quiet about one another’s identities?”

  Marcus knew he was at a stalemate—for now. “I am certain the magistrate will find your tales most amusing.” His gaze met hers again. “But other business requires my attention at present, Mr. Swift.”

  Her lashes swept downward to conceal those infinite amethyst eyes.

  “Is Elizabeth even your real name?” he asked impulsively. “Is the Lady Barnes-Finchley part of your story at least true?”

  She turned her face away and didn’t answer.

  “What harm is there in revealing your name?”

  “‘Mr. Swift’ will do,” she said tartly.

  “Very well.” Frowning at her sarcasm, he headed for the door. “I will give you time to consider the wisdom of stopping your raids, Mr. Swift. Rest assured, if you don’t agree, I will turn you in without hesitation.”

  “Wait,” she called after him. “My friends… they’ll be worried about me. Could I send them a note?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t have to reveal my location,” she persisted. “I only want to relieve their concern. You could have your butler deliver the note to…” She paused, her expression guarded. “To a shop on the Strand called Osgood’s. The people there will see that it’s passed along to my friends.”

  Marcus hesitated, his hand on the door latch. He supposed it would be safe enough to send Quinn with a verbal message…

  He shook off the sympathetic impulse. She had better learn, starting now, that he was not some soft-hearted, generous, obliging gentleman she could twist about her finger.

  “No,” he repeated, leaving the room and closing the door firmly behind him.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Don’t ye give up yet, Georgi. We’ll find Bess, we will.” Nell paced restlessly up and down along the rows of fabrics in her shop. She had just convinced Georgiana to sit down, but found herself unable to sit still.

  “But it’s been two days.” Georgiana dabbed at the tears on her cheeks with a lace handkerchief, then blew her nose. “It’s our fault, Nell. We should have insisted she not go out. I had a—”

  “I know, I know. Ye had a feelin’.” Nell went to the front room and looked out at the gray, rainy afternoon. When Elizabeth hadn’t returned at her regular hour, they had gone out looking for her. It had begun to rain, turning the roads into impassable mud, but they continued to search, checking back at the shop every few hours—hoping to find Elizabeth waiting, with a bag of silver in her hands and a triumphant smile on her face.

  It had been two days now, and there was no sign of her.

  “What if she was caught and taken to gaol or… or…” Georgiana’s sniffle broke into a sob.

  Nell returned to her friend. She paused a moment, then awkwardly leaned down and hugged her. She knew Georgiana was especially fond of Bess, and understood why: the viscountess had never been able to have children of her own, and that sorrow clung to her heart despite the cheerful smiles she allowed the world to see. Elizabeth was like a daughter to her.

  “There, now, Georgi. Don’t ye be thinkin’ she’s gone. Our Bess is a strong one, and more wily than a fox. She’ll be all right.” Nell wished she could believe her own words of comfort.

  But she knew that all the courage and cleverness in the world wouldn’t stop a bullet.

  She patted Georgi’s shoulder, feeling her own eyes mist up. “Ye stay here and rest.” Straightening, she stalked toward the front of the shop, to fetch her still-sodden cloak from where it hung near the entrance. “I’m goin’ to go back out one more time—”

  A knock at the back door interrupted her.

  “It might be her!” Georgiana leaped up and hustled toward the rear of the shop before Nell could even turn around.

  By the time Nell reached the back door, Georgi had already opened it to reveal a stranger standing in the alley.

  He had blond hair, and impeccable grooming despite the soggy weather. From the fine fabric and tailoring of his coat, Nell guessed him to be a member of the aristocracy. He was addressing Georgiana.

  “I have a message.” His voice was formal, polished. “Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley has been injured. But she is being cared for and is expected to recover—”

  “Who the blast are ye?” Nell snapped as she came to stand next to Georgi.


  The man gave her a sharp look for the interruption. But as he regarded her for the first time, his gaze traveling from her face to the hem of her gown and back, the annoyance in his gray eyes shifted to something much warmer. “And who would you be, Miss…?”

  “Never mind who we be. Who the devil are ye, and where’s Bess?” Nell demanded.

  “I cannot reveal her whereabouts,” he replied calmly. “You will have to trust me when I say she is well.”

  “I don’t have to do nothin’ ye say, ye dandiprat.”

  He looked bemused. “True enough. But I fear that is all I can tell you.” With a polite bow to each of them, he turned to leave. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  “Wait, sir!” Georgiana called out. “Who are you?”

  Pulling up the collar of his coat against the rain, he turned back toward them, his eyes lingering over Nell. “I am afraid I cannot reveal that, either.”

  “Well, whoever ye are,” Nell spat, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks as he looked at her, “ye hear me, now. If anythin’ happens to Bess, ye’ll answer to me!”

  Her threat failed to ruffle him. In fact, it made him smile at her. “Then I give you my word of honor, miss, that nothing shall happen to her. We will take excellent care of her.”

  Nell cursed under her breath, so irritated at the way he dodged their questions that she didn’t even bother to correct the “Miss.” They watched him walk away until he was swallowed up by the rain.

  “Cor, Georgi, what the devil has Bess got herself into now?”

  Chapter 5

  The thick Oriental rug felt bristly beneath Elizabeth’s bare toes as she crossed Lord Darkridge’s bedchamber. She had to pause every few steps to catch her breath at the pain in her side. When she finally reached the mahogany wardrobe in the corner, she opened it, fighting a wave of dizziness. Inside she found a variety of coats, waistcoats and breeches, all in black, navy and charcoal gray.

  Rather a somber wardrobe for a dissolute nobleman, she thought, pulling out a silk robe in an oriental pattern of dark blues and golds. She had to roll back the sleeves, and the hem dragged behind her like a train, but it was better than sneaking about clad only in his shirt.