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With only the lamp above the stable door to light the courtyard, Garrick took the reins from a miserable-looking Dan. The lad was all alone and clearly worried about Garrick’s departure. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
The boy nodded.
‘I’ve laid a trap for our highwaymen.’
‘At the barn?’
He’d decided against laying in wait at their hideout. Things might get ugly if he cornered them both. He wanted to separate them. Catch one of them out in the open. Divide and conquer. Not something he had time to explain to the lad, so he nodded agreement. ‘Not a word to anyone, if you please.’
The boy’s face brightened. ‘And you’re takin’ yer sword, too. I’d like to see a sword fight.’ He lunged, with one arm straight. ‘Stick her with it.’
Bloodthirsty little wretch. ‘Perhaps,’ Garrick said, holding back the urge to laugh. ‘Be a good lad and obey Mr Johnson as you would me.’
Dan stepped back and bowed with an innate dignity that seemed at odds with his rough upbringing. He’d miss the lad when he left for the army, he realised. Enough maudlin thoughts. He had work to do.
With a nod he mounted and urged Bess into a canter. Beyond Boxted he found a rise not far from where Lady Moonlight had held him up two nights before. From this vantage, he would see the villains when they set up their ambush for the non-existent Beauworth coach. They were in for a nasty surprise.
Clouds fled from the moon and Mist stood out like a patch of snow on a bare mountain. Eleanor edged deeper into the shadows. As usual, her stomach tightened like a windlass and her mouth dried to dust, but tonight her nervousness was pitched far higher than normal. She missed the stalwart Martin. She tightened her grip on Mist’s reins.
The horse pricked his ears, flicking them in the direction of the field on the other side of the hedge. She held her breath, listening. A rustle of leaves, barely noticeable above the sound of the wind in the trees. A crack of a twig. It had to be him.
A rider broke through a gap in the hedge at the same moment the pitiless moon chose to reappear. Bad luck for him. ‘Now, Mist. Fly.’ She crouched over his neck and they galloped for the woods.
After a few minutes of dodging trees and bushes, she reined in. The pursuit crashed through the undergrowth behind her. She smiled. He’d taken the bait. A heady rush of excitement filled her veins, buzzing in her ears. He’d come alone, too, so she didn’t have to worry about leading more than him astray.
She guided the horse off the well-worn path and into the tangled bushes. Low branches kept her ducking, but Mist required only the lightest touch as he followed the path she’d mapped out earlier in the day.
The clearing came up fast. She stopped and glanced back. Nothing. No sound or sight of anyone. Dash it. She’d been too clever and managed to lose him. She started to turn back.
‘Hold.’ The harsh word came from in front, not behind.
She whipped her head around. There, across the moon-drenched space, pistol drawn, he waited, his horse breathing hard. He’d circled around instead of following. Her heart thundered, her mind scrambled with the alteration to her plan. She gulped a breath. Things would go very ill if she made a mistake.
‘You may observe,’ the Marquess said coolly, ‘that I have my pistol trained on you. So I suggest it is your turn to stand and deliver.’
She walked Mist into the middle of the clearing.
‘Throw down your pistols,’ he demanded.
No fool, then. She pulled them from their holsters one at a time and tossed them at his horse’s front hoofs. The animal rolled its eyes, but remained still. Damn.
‘Dismount,’ he said, his voice cold, his hand steady.
A chill ran down her spine. He looked dangerously angry. She turned, preparing to dismount with Mist between them.
‘Oh, no, you don’t. Get off on this side or I’ll shoot the horse.’
Blast. He obviously knew that old cavalry trick. She bit her lip. She had no choice but to obey. Cautiously, she slipped out of the saddle, retaining her hold on Mist’s bridle.
Still mounted, the Marquess walked his horse to stand directly before her. The big-boned mare towered over her and Mist. Raising her gaze, Eleanor watched his eyes, ready to drop to the ground if he decided to fire. You didn’t grow up with older brothers and a soldier father without learning something useful.
Atop his horse, his face stern, he looked like some avenging god of war. Beautiful in the way of a cold marble statue.
‘Well, wench, we meet again.’ His gazed raked her from her head to her heels. ‘An interesting costume. You don’t expect me to believe you are a boy, do you?’
She’d opted for the freedom of breeches for the work she had to do tonight. She cast him the saucy half-smile she’d copied from Lizzie, the upstairs maid at Castlefield. A lass with an eye for the lads. ‘Well, well, if it ain’t the Markiss Boworthy. So we meets agin’, milord. Come for another kiss, ’ave yer?’
Casually, he gathered his reins in one hand and prepared to dismount. The nodcock. Underestimating her because she was female. She tensed. As his foot touched the ground, his body turned and his pistol moved off target. She tore her sword from the scabbard on her saddle and clutched the blade in her left hand. As he squared up, she lunged. A swift arc with the hilt knocked his pistol up. It exploded harmlessly into the air. A flick and she tossed the sword into her right hand, ready to run him through.
‘Stand back,’ she ordered.
Steel hissed as he drew a sword from the scabbard at his side. He was carrying a sword? Only the military carried them these days, or those with nefarious intent. He must have noticed hers on her saddle the other evening. Damn it. Now what?
He must have seen her surprise, because he laughed. ‘Nice move, wench, but I am an expert swordsman. You might as well give up now.’
The way he said swordsman, almost like a caress, sent a shiver down her spine. Arrogant man. She would dashed well show him a thing or two before she presented her nice little surprise. ‘Damn yer eyes, Markiss.’ She slashed at him, testing his skill.
He stumbled back, yet parried the unexpected thrust. He chuckled softly. Was he enjoying this? He had the reach, without question, but he was nothing but an idle rake, whereas she had practised for hours with William every day before he left for his regiment. She hacked at him in a flurry of blows.
At first, Beauworth gave ground to her attack. He fought lazily, his tip dropping time and time again. Always managing to recover before she broke through. He kept glancing around. ‘Where’s your accomplice?’ he asked in insultingly conversational tones as he parried a particularly tricky thrust with seeming ease.
‘Takin’ care of business in Lunnon.’
‘So you thought you’d try thieving on your own?’
‘Like taking lollipops from a baby it is.’ In spite of her bravado, her heavy breathing meant she found engaging in a conversation difficult. She’d tried every trick she knew. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She dashed it away on her sleeve, circling her opponent and taking advantage of a brief reprieve.
‘Had enough, wench?’ he jibed.
Enough? She’d almost pinked him twice. She had the upper hand, despite her tiring arm. She gulped air into her desperate lungs. ‘Not ’til I have yer ’ead on me spit.’
His husky chuckle drifted maddeningly into the night. Damn him. She was wilting and he seemed not the slightest bit discomposed.
Without warning, he changed his stance, attacked her hard and fast, lunging and stabbing. No more did his sword point waver, it flashed in a quicksilver blur. The grate of steel on steel screeched into the silence. Forced back by his superior strength, she retreated toward the great oak tree, which had stood guard over this clearing for centuries. She bit her lip. Had she been too confident?
His sword tip closed in on her throat. She defended and recovered. Again, he forced her back. She tripped on a root, staggering back, her arms wide.
He flicked his wrist and her coatsleeve was cut from elbow to shoulder. They both knew it could just as easily have been her flesh. She could see it in his eyes and the arrogant tilt of his head.
Air scraped her throat dry. Trembles shook her hand. Her wrist ached. The point of her blade wavered badly. Tip up. Tip up. Her father’s laughing voice rang in her ears. Her wrist refused to comply. This man was dangerous and she was running out of time. She glanced over her shoulder, lined herself up.
The Marquess’s grin exuded arrogance. At any moment, he would have her. He knew it. She knew it. He was far better than he’d let her believe. She should have been more wary right from the beginning, more focused on what she needed to do.
The tree trunk loomed behind her. She thrust at him one last time. He twisted his wrist. Her sword spun free. He caught it neatly and effortlessly in his left hand and crossed both blades at her throat.
Her heart beat wildly. Her stomach pitched. She swallowed dust. This was not supposed to happen.
His teeth flashed white and his eyes gleamed. While her ribs ached with the need for air, his chest barely rose and fell. ‘Now, Lady Moonlight, we need to talk. But first, let’s see your face.’ He tossed her blade aside.
Eleanor’s knees shook so hard, she feared she might stumble on to his point, yet somehow she dodged his hand. ‘Put up…I concede.’
He gave a little ground, but his sword point did not waver from the base of her neck. ‘So, you thought you would have my head on a spit, did you? I wonder how yours will look stretched on the gallows. Give me the mask.’
She lifted her hands away from her sides in an extravagant gesture of defeat, felt the dagger slide into her palm. She flicked it free of her sleeve. The blade flashed wickedly.
His jaw dropped, then he laughed. ‘You think to defeat a sword with a hat pin?’
God, she hoped so. She cast it underhand at the branch behind his head. He dodged. The net dropped, tangling his sword in the mesh. He cursed. Sawed at the ropes to no effect. She ran for the coil of rope behind the tree, hauled it through the block and tackle she’d nailed above his head. The mouth of the net tightened, trapping him and his sword inside.
She ran for her pistols and spun around. ‘Methinks…yer took o’er long, Markiss,’ she gasped. She wrapped the length of rope around his torso, while he glared at her through the mesh. ‘You should ’ave finished it when you had the chance.’
A net. The little hellion. Garrick’s face heated. She’d caught him like a cod fish. No matter how he twisted, he couldn’t break free and could get no leverage with his blade.
‘Drop yer sword,’ she said, pointing her pistol at his head. With his legs free, he could try a flying leap and no doubt one of them would get shot. Trouble was it was more likely to be he with his arms trapped against his body. He released the hilt of his sword, and she extracted it from the net, kindly not slicing him in the process.
He tried stretching the ropes with his shoulders and elbows.
‘Save yer strength,’ she advised, tying the free end of the rope to her horse. ‘You’ve a long walk ahead of yer.’
‘Like hell.’
‘Yer choice. Walk or be dragged.’ She mounted the grey and gathered up Bess’s reins.
Bloody hell. He was going to see her hang for this.
It was a long walk back to the barn he’d found the day before, but she took it nice and easy, and if he hadn’t been bundled like a sack of washing, he might not have minded the exercise.
Inside the barn, she bade him sit.
‘What now?’ he asked as she tied his ankles and fastened the rope about his waist to a metal ring on the wall.
‘I would think a Markiss ought to be worth a guinea or two.’
That he hadn’t expected. He forced a laugh. ‘So it’s a ransom you’re seeking, is it?’ He tried to ease the pressure of the ropes, but there was no give. ‘My uncle won’t fall for it. ’Tis well known that once the ransom is paid, abductors kill the victim. He will, however, hunt you down like dogs.’
She kicked at his boot. ‘Looks like yer the dead man, then.’
She left him in the dark with his thoughts, his growing anger and the scent of hay and horse manure in his nostrils.
He struggled inside his bindings. Nothing he did made them any looser and he found nothing within reach to serve as a blade.
The more time passed, the more fury filled his heart until his head ached. He imagined his captor swinging from a gibbet, or hanging by her arms in some dark dungeon. But each time he got to the point of murdering her, he found himself kissing her instead. More frustration.
What would Uncle Duncan do when he received their ransom note? He’d be worried mindless. He’d probably pay the damned ransom, too. Something the estate could ill afford, apparently.
She’d have to set him loose at some point and then he’d find a way to break free. In the meantime, it would be better to think of something other than his captor if he wanted to remain sane.
The delightful vision of Ellie Brown floated across his mind’s eye. Now there was a maid worth thinking about. She reminded him of untouched spring mornings and pristine golden beaches—all that was good in the world—whereas Lady Moonlight was dark nights and silk sheets and the heat of lust—pure wickedness.
Given the choice, which one did he want? Both. Together in one bed. He groaned as his body expressed approval of the image then let his mind take him where it would. Better to be driven mad by sexual frustration than rage.
Garrick opened his eyes to the sound of raised voices. Two voices, one male, one female, outside the barn. A falling out of thieves? He blinked to clear his vision. He must have slept. His neck and back were sore and his hands and feet were numb. The barn door swung open and sunlight streamed into his prison. He squinted at the large figure outlined in the doorway. Her accomplice had returned. He looked furious.
Pistol in one hand, knife in the other, the masked man slashed through the net and then the ropes. He yanked Garrick to his feet. Blood rushed into his extremities. He bit back a protest. ‘Outside,’ his captor said.
Struggling to regain his wits, Garrick shuffled out on feet pricked by a thousand pins, and every joint in his body complaining. Outside in the dazzle of a fine morning, the woman, also masked, bent over a pan on the fire. The blankets piled nearby suggested she’d camped there.
As usual, her hair was covered with her peruke. She looked up as Garrick sat down cross-legged against the wall of the barn. ‘You walk like an old man.’
He glared at her. ‘So would you if you’d been tied like a parcel all night.’
She collected more wood for the fire from a pile at the side of the barn. On the way back she sniffed as she passed him. ‘You stinks. Ben, take ’im to the pond to wash.’
So her partner’s name was Ben.
‘On your feet, my lord,’ the man said.
‘Why bother?’ he said, glowering at Ben. ‘You’re just going to murder me.’
Ben picked up his rifle, grabbed Garrick by the upper arm and marched him down to the pond where he untied the ropes at his wrists.
‘Strip.’
Garrick glanced at the woman. ‘No.’
‘Then I’ll do it fer ye while she holds the rifle. Leave your damned breeches on if ye must.’
Garrick huffed out a breath. No point in arguing for the sake of it.
He removed his coat and dropped it at his feet. His shirt followed, and he sat to remove his boots and stockings. Retaining his breeches, he stood. With a wary eye on Ben, he backed into the water.
‘You’ll see my bullet coming,’ Ben said.
Garrick didn’t trust either of them and let disbelief show in his face. When the water was deep enough, he sluiced the water over his arms and face. The woman strolled to the water’s edge and tossed him a bar of soap, then she picked up his shirt and stockings, rinsed them and hung them to dry over the fence.
‘I’ll have those back, wench,’ Garrick called. She ignored him.
Although the mud on the bottom oozed between his toes, the water was cool and reasonably clear. Garrick could not help but enjoy the freshness after his ghastly night. He kept an eye on Ben who, while he held his rifle casually, held it with the assurance of a man practised in its use. Garrick was sure the man had seen military service from his disciplined movements and ramrod carriage. A hard man, who would not make escape easy.
He soaped his hair and sank beneath the water to rinse. When he came to the surface he saw Ben alert, his rifle cocked. He stood up slowly, aware of the wench watching from the bank, her gaze travelling over his torso, her lips parting slightly as if she’d never seen a man without his shirt.
Heat pooled instantly in his loins. Damn her. She’d done it on purpose. He splashed more water over his face, forcing his body under control before he could think of leaving the water. Fortunately, she returned to her cooking.
So Garrick made his way out of the pond and headed for his clothes.
‘No need to be shy,’ the woman said. ‘Put them on when they are dry.’
Ben looked scandalised. He muttered something under his breath, but gestured for Garrick to go ahead.
