SEDUCTION in Regency Society August 2014

DECEPTION in Regency Society September 2014

PROPOSALS in Regency Society October 2014

PRIDE in Regency Society November 2014

MISCHIEF in Regency Society December 2014

INNOCENCE in Regency Society January 2015

ENCHANTED in Regency Society February 2015

HEIRESS in Regency Society March 2015

PREJUDICE in Regency Society April 2015

FORBIDDEN in Regency Society May 2015

TEMPTATION in Regency Society June 2015

REVENGE in Regency Society July 2015

ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members, who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Enchanted in

Regency Society

Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

The Gamekeeper’s Lady

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

The Gamekeeper’s Lady

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Copyright

Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

Ann Lethbridge

ISBN: 978-1-474-00647-7

ENCHANTED IN REGENCY SOCIETY

Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress © 2009 Ann Lethbridge The Gamekeeper’s Lady © 2010 Ann Lethbridge

Published in Great Britain 2014

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ®are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2018-10-26

I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, Keith, and my wonderful critique partners, Molly, Maureen, Mary, Sinead, Teresa and Jude. My special thanks go to my editor, Joanne Grant, whose skill and patience is gratefully acknowledged.

Chapter One

Sussex, England—May 1811

The anger burning in the Marquess of Beauworth’s throat tasted of bile and bitter regret. While the horses thundered through shadows and moonlit tracts of rolling Sussex landscape, Garrick fought the urge to turn back for London.

He swallowed his ire and the carriage raced on. Home to Beauworth. The place he hated most in the world.

Not even the person closest to him, Duncan Le Clere, understood his hatred of the place. Sometimes he didn’t understand it himself, but lack of knowledge didn’t lessen the tension in his shoulders or the foreboding.

The pain of bruised tendon and bone reminded him of the reason for his return. One by one, he unclenched his fingers, forcibly relaxing his hands in his lap, breathing deeply and slowly, regaining control. He lounged deeper in the corner, stretching his legs along the gap between the seats, a picture of insouciance. After all, the Marquess of Beauworth, idle rake, reckless gambler and bored dandy, had a reputation to uphold.

The carriage swayed violently. He grabbed for the strap beside his head. The vehicle slowed, then stopped.

‘Mon Dieu! What now?’ He let down the window and stuck his head out.

The carriage horses tossed their heads uneasily, their shapes indistinct in the shadow of the high hedges lining the road. The sound of their hard breathing and jingling harnesses cut through the warm stillness. Garrick narrowed his eyes, staring ahead into the dark. ‘What do you see, Johnson?’ Probably a puddle. The poor old fellow should have retired years ago.

Something white gleamed eerily in the shadows ahead. A white horse walking in the centre of the road, moonlight slipping luminescent over a dappled coat. At first he saw only the horse. Then another dark shape, a slight figure clutching the bridle. A woman in a black riding habit. Walking alone? Bloody hell. She must be in trouble.

He wrenched open the carriage door, leapt down and started forwards with an offer of help on his lips. The sight of a pair of long-barrelled pistols in her hands, one aimed at his forehead and the other at his servants, stopped him short.

Cold moonlight revealed a black mask covering all but her mouth, while a point-edge cocked hat adorned a curled and powdered peruke. Black lace frothed at her wrists and throat.

‘Good God.’ The exclamation exploded from his lips as recognition struck. Lady Moonlight, the daring cavalier’s lady from Cromwell’s time, forced to take to the High Toby to feed her family. Her exploits were legendary in this part of Sussex as were the sightings of her spirit after she’d hanged.

‘Stand and deliver!’ Her husky voice, tinged with the accent of the dregs of London, echoed off the overarching trees. The grey minced sideways and she checked it with a low murmur.

No ghost this. Merely a common criminal.

Garrick glanced up at the box where Johnson and Dan sat wide-eyed and motionless, apparently taken in by the clever ruse.

‘Hand over yer valuables or the boy is dead meat,’ she called out.

There was a desperate edge to the coarse voice he didn’t like, but the pistols remained steady enough and both were cocked and ready. Damnation, but he wasn’t in the mood for this tonight. A rush of anger roared through his veins, a red haze blurring his vision, his fingers curling into fists.

He inhaled long and slowly.

Control. Anything else and someone less innocent than he would die. Behind her mask her eyes glittered. Courage or fear? Would she shoot an unarmed man?

Dan, fear bleaching his cheeks, rose in his seat. One pistol tracked his movement.

‘Curse it, lad,’ the thief said. ‘Yer want to die?’

Nom d’un nom. Garrick might be prepared to take a chance with his own life, but he would not risk the boy. He, more than anyone, deserved better. ‘Sit down, Dan,’ he ordered.

Scared eyes found Garrick’s face. He nodded encouragement. The boy subsided on to his seat beside the rigid Johnson. Garrick shook his head. ‘Be still, both of you.’

Clearly realising Garrick’s dilemma, the little witch kept one pistol fixed on Dan as she slipped the other into a saddle-holster beside a cunningly wrought sword sling. The intricate hilt protruding from the scabbard fitted her costume well enough. His lip curled. He’d like to see her try to best him with a sword.

She tossed her hat on the ground near his feet. ‘Throw yer trinkets in there.’

A shimmer of light surrounded her face and body as she moved. A ghostly light. Was he going mad? Then he saw the sequins. They covered her mask and reflected moonlight from her coat and waistcoat. The little wretch looked like a reveller at a masquerade, and for such a deadly purpose.

An elegant twist of wrist and flutter of black lace drew his attention to the upturned hat. ‘I ain’t got all day.’

Garrick bowed with a flourish, acknowledging her impatience with charm and grace. ‘Your wish is my command, milady.’

As he straightened, her full lips curved in a quick smile. She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Yer too gracious, sir.’

‘Ah, a polite Lady Moonlight.’ He raised a brow. ‘I’m waiting, chérie.’

Her smile fled and oddly he found himself regretting its loss. ‘For what?’ she asked. ‘A bullet in yer brain?’

‘For my kiss. Lady Moonlight always kisses the men she robs if she thinks them handsome.’

‘Just put yer valuables in the ‘at, milord.’ A hint of laughter coloured her nasal voice.

Aware of the astonished gazes of those on the box, he spread his arms in a mock gesture of appeal. ‘Are you saying you find me lacking? How cutting. You break my heart.’

She chuckled, soft and low and very feminine, but the pistol steadied in the region of his chest. ‘Now, milord.’

He put a hand to his pocket as if seeking his watch and cursed silently. He had left his travelling pistol in the coat lying on the carriage seat. Perhaps it was as well. He had no wish to harm the wench. He kept his voice calm and soft. ‘This is dangerous work for a woman. If you get caught you’ll hang, whereas I could offer you gainful employment.’

‘Hah. I know yer sort’s idea of work. Enough gabbing or you’ll be joining yer ancestors.’ Underneath the bravado, her voice shook with the tremor of tightly stretched nerves.

Much as he didn’t care if he joined his ancestors, he didn’t want her nervous and threatening the servants again. He pulled out his fob and dangled his watch between them. Slowly, he twisted the gold links in his fingers. The diamond-encrusted case winked and glittered like moonbeams on water.

The pistol trembled. She wouldn’t use it. He was certain.

She reached for the prize, her head no higher than his shoulder as she snatched at the watch with her leather-gloved hand. Garrick caught her fine-boned wrist in one hand and restrained her pistol arm tight against her side with the other. He crushed her slender body hard against him, encircling her waist.

Her exhale of shock was warm, sweet and moist on his neck. Soft breasts compressed against his ribs. She smelled of vanilla with undertones of leather and horses. An oddly heady combination. He lowered his head and planted his lips firmly against her mouth, pleased when her lips drifted open in surprise.

The air around him warmed and swirled, sending his blood pounding and his senses alert to her response. Her delicate lithe body, at first inflexible, softened just enough to let him know she was not unwilling. Indeed, her body moulded most deliciously to his. He ran his hand down her slender back and savoured the soft curves of her buttocks.

Somewhere in this exchange, his earlier fury had softened to the heat of desire. Another passion requiring control. And control it he would. He deepened the kiss and inched his fingers towards her hand, feeling for the pistol.

The little hellion broke free and leapt back, breathing hard, her eyes in the slits in the mask sparkling with reflected sequins or some deeper, hotter fire. Chest rising and falling in quick succession, she levelled the barrel at his chest. A point-blank shot. ‘Stay back.’ Her glance darted to the servants. ‘All of ye.’

Laughing, he reached for her. ‘Surely we can find a more amenable way for you to earn a living? One we would both enjoy.’

She stilled, those rosy just-kissed lips curving in a saucy grin. She curtsied, full and deep. ‘I think not.’

‘Look out, my lord,’ Johnson called.

Garrick caught a blur of movement at the corner of his eye. With a curse, he whirled around. A large masked man, a pistol clutched in his fist, raised his arm high. Garrick dodged. The blow hammered against the side of his head. A blinding light flashed. He fought descending darkness. The ground hit his knees as he fell into black.

Blood rushed in Lady Eleanor Hadley’s ears. Her head swam. Her heart raced. At any moment she would measure her length beside the man at her feet.

She took a deep breath, crouched at her victim’s side and found a strong steady pulse in his wrist. She stood upright, glaring at Martin. ‘Did you have to hit him so hard?’ she muttered.

‘What the devil are ye doing, letting him get so near?’ Martin’s deep, low mutter rang harsh with anger. He levelled his pistol at the men on the box.

Panting, she stared at the inert body on the ground. What had she been thinking? That he was tall and impossibly handsome under the soft light of the moon? That the easy smile on his lean, dark face held no danger? If not for Martin, she might have fallen into his trap like a wasp in a jam pot. He had to be cocksure of his abilities as a lover if he thought to overpower her with a kiss. A laugh bubbled up. Hysterical, born of nerves and the strange sensations he’d sparked in her body. Never had she felt so horridly wonderfully weak, as if her bones were liquid and her mind was mush. Not her normal self at all.

If it wasn’t for his grab for the pistol, he might have swept her off her feet.

‘Where were you, Martin?’ she muttered. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be covering the driver?’

‘I never saw you start forrard. The plan was for me to give the signal.’

Even in the dim light, she saw his skin darken. Poor Martin. The best man to lead a charge, according to her father, but he made a terrible highwayman. She’d tried to send him away after their first foray. He’d refused point blank. Dear loyal Martin.

‘Never mind.’ She pointed to her victim and raised her voice. ‘See wot ’e’s got on ’im before ’e wakes.’

As Martin bent to do her bidding, the coachman fumbled under his seat. Oh God, this could get out of hand very quickly. She jerked her pistol in his direction. ‘Don’t try it.’

He straightened and raised his hands again. The angelic-looking boy beside him sat rigid, his shoulders shaking, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. No heroics there, thank heavens.

Martin rolled the man on the ground on to his back. He moaned, his head lolling against his shoulder, his brow furrowed as if, even unconscious, he was aware of pain. The strong column of neck disappeared into a crisp, elegantly tied neckloth and merged with powerful shoulders encased in a snug-fitting dark coat. Dark hair and olive skin gave his strong features a foreign cast.

Her heart pounded a little too hard. He was beautiful. Not an adjective she normally used about a man. They were usually either rough, or gentlemanly, or they were simply men she saw every day and gave no thought to at all. This one was beautiful in the way of a bronze sculpture: a perfectly moulded jaw, smooth plane of cheek, straight dark brows above a noble nose. Her fingers itched to trace his features, to feel the texture of bone and skin, much like one might run a hand over a fine statue. The line of his full bottom lip echoed the feel of his mouth on hers, warm and unbelievably exciting. And his voice, with its faint French accent, had brushed across her nape like the touch of velvet.

Madness.

He moaned again. She jumped back. To her relief, he did not open his eyes. Martin had struck him hard. She swallowed. Hopefully not a fateful blow. She didn’t want him badly hurt, for all he’d seemed so careless with his life. Nor did she want to face him again. ‘Time to go. Into the coach with him. You,’ she said, pointing at the coachman, ‘get down and lend a ’and. And no tricks.’

The coachman heaved his portly frame over the side.

Martin went to his head. ‘Pick up his feet,’ he ordered the coachman, who bent with a grunt and grasped the man under the knees above black Hessians polished to an impossibly glossy shine.

‘Hold,’ she said.

‘What now?’ Martin said in a growl.

‘Take his boots.’

Stiff with anger, he dropped the man to the ground. He pushed the coachman aside with a grunt of disapproval and heaved off the tight-fitting footwear. He returned to his post at the man’s head.

Eleanor opened the door of the carriage and stood back. The two men hoisted their burden on to the floor of the coach. Martin slammed the door.

‘Be off with you,’ she said to the panting coachman. ‘As fast as you can before I change me mind.’

The coachman wasted no time in climbing up and a moment later the carriage sped down the road. Its swaying lamp disappeared around the corner.

Martin bent and cupped his hands and boosted her on to Mist, her steady little gelding, who had waited so patiently all this time.

Eleanor struggled awkwardly with her skirts as she settled into the saddle. ‘Next time I’ll wear William’s breeches.’

‘There ain’t going to be no next time.’ Martin stuffed their booty into his saddlebags and climbed aboard the chestnut. ‘Mark my words, you’ll end up like her, my lady. On Tyburn tree.’

Eleanor’s stomach twisted at the worry in his voice. ‘Do you have a better idea?’ She dug her heel into Mist’s flank and they galloped swiftly into the protection of the woods. Eleanor used to love the freedom of riding at night. Many times, she and William, her twin, had slipped out to roam the countryside around their Hampshire estate after midnight. They’d been best friends in those days. She’d borrowed his clothes. And why not? She’d ridden as well as, if not better than, her brothers, shot as well as they did. And that was her downfall. She thought she knew better than them.

Look at tonight. This victim had been wonderfully rich, but the night had almost ended in disaster. Everything she touched went horribly wrong. William was on his way home, his ship due in Portsmouth any day now, and he’d come home to find himself ruined.

All because she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Heat flooded her body. He’d think her such an impetuous fool.

Unless she could put things right before he arrived.

It didn’t take long to reach the barn where they hid their horses. Eleanor slid out of the saddle and led Mist inside. She swept off the mask, wig and hat, casting them to the floor, scrubbing at her itchy scalp as her hair cascaded around her shoulders.

‘Do you know who he was?’ Martin asked, following her in.

‘A dandy with gold in his pocket and jewellery to spare.’

‘It was Beauworth. I recognised the coach.’

‘What?’ A cold, hard lump settled in her stomach. Beauworth? The man bent on destroying her family. She’d flirted with him, let him kiss her. Her face warmed at the memory. How demeaning. She yanked the leading rein through the metal ring in the wall. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Weren’t much time for talking,’ Martin said, turning from the task of lighting a lantern hanging from a beam. His voice sounded disapproving. ‘He’s a gambler and a libertine. Cuts a swathe through the ladies like a scythe through hay, I’m told. The way he took hold of you fair makes my blood boil. We should never have held him up, neither. His uncle is the magistrate. We’ll be knee deep in Bow Street Runners in a day or so.’

Eleanor grimaced. ‘Without money, we’ll starve and what will I tell William? That I carelessly lost his home and fortune?’ Her stomach dropped away, her skin turning clammy, the way it did every time she remembered. William had trusted her to look after his interests until he returned. By forging his signature, she’d spent every penny in the bank. And then, out of nowhere Beauworth had demanded repayment of a mortgage she’d known nothing about. Damn him.

When he realised they couldn’t pay, he’d sent in the bailiffs, forcing her and Sissy to seek refuge where they could.

If only the ship into which she’d sunk all William’s money would return from the Orient, everything would be all right. The stupid thing seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Her heart picked up speed. What if it never returned?

And she needed money so they could eat. Blast it all. She had thought she was so dashed clever. Instead, she’d brought them all to the brink of ruin.

Miserably, she pulled a carrot from the pocket of her coat. Mist’s warm breath moistened her palm as he nuzzled it free.

‘Perhaps if I went to speak to the Marquess, he would listen to reason,’ she said.

‘Take pity on a helpless woman, you mean?’

Phrased in such bald terms, it sounded thoroughly dishonourable. William would never approve. But then he wouldn’t approve of her taking to the High Toby, either. A career that she’d discovered all too quickly, lacked the romance and adventure of legends. If they were caught, the authorities would respond without mercy. ‘Ask for more time.’

‘Jarvis said he needs the money. Got debts of his own.’

They always did, these fashionable men. Michael, her eldest brother, had had huge debts when he died. They were what made her invest in the ship.

There had to be some other way out. ‘We need something to trade for the mortgage.’

‘Too bad you didn’t think of that an hour ago. We could have traded his lordship.’

Jaw slack, her eyes wide, she gazed at Martin’s broad back. ‘Blast. I walked away from the perfect solution.’

Martin swung around. ‘Oh, no. I was jesting, my lady, and badly. I promised your father my loyalty to his children and I’ve kept my word, but I’ll not be party to abduction.’

‘You are right. It is far too dangerous.’ She tossed an old blanket over Mist’s back. Martin did the same for his mount.

‘Why didn’t you tell me the rest of that stupid legend?’ she asked. ‘The kissing business?’ A kiss as sweet as sugar and as dark as the brandy on his breath. Not to mention strange delicious shivers deep in places she never knew existed. His body, where he pressed her close, had felt satisfyingly hard. She had wanted to touch him. All over. At the thought of her fingertips on his skin, her stomach tumbled in a strangely pleasant dance.

Blankly she stared at the plank wall with limbs the consistency of honey. She clapped a hand to her mouth. How could she feel this way knowing what this man had done?

Martin scratched his chin. ‘My brother never mentioned no kiss, my lady.’ Which meant it probably wasn’t true. She felt the heat rise in her face as Martin turned to look at her. ‘Why did you take his boots?’

Eleanor still didn’t understand the sudden teasing urge she’d felt and she certainly wouldn’t tell Martin about the way his wicked smile and brush of his lips had turned her insides to porridge. ‘They were new and he’s a dandy.’ She shrugged. ‘It will annoy him. You know how ridiculous William is about his boots.’ Besides, he’d been too bold, too reckless for his own good. A real criminal might have killed him. A lesson in humility would do him good. ‘Throw them in the pond.’

She picked up her hat, tucking the wig and mask inside it. She stripped off the coat and waistcoat and handed them to Martin, who hauled the bundle up to the rafters in a net by way of an old block and tackle they’d found in the hayloft. ‘We will have to ride out again.’

‘Please, my lady. You are risking your neck for naught but a few baubles and a handful of guineas.’

She winced. As her father’s sergeant in the army and later his steward, Martin would have given his life for her father. Now he held doggedly to his promise to serve his children, but she couldn’t ask him to take any more risks. Not when everything she touched went wrong. ‘It would serve William best if you returned to Castlefield. Keep an eye on the house. Make sure the bailiffs don’t steal anything.’

‘And let you risk your neck alone?’ Martin glowered and shook his shaggy head. ‘Your father always said you was a handful.’

A tomboy, he meant. Too competitive for a girl. Too impetuous, Father had said, when Mother defended her. And she’d been so sure she’d show William how well she could handle things in his absence. Pride had definitely ended in a fall. And if she didn’t do something soon, she’d drag the rest of the family into the pit.

Garrick groaned and sat up on the floor of the carriage. Cursing, he pulled himself on to the seat and investigated the bump behind his ear with his fingertips. A knot as big as an egg. Blast the woman.

A comely female at that, if he hadn’t been mistaken. He recalled the spiralling heat between them and her delicate trembles beneath his touch with a searing jolt of desire. For one heady moment, he’d thought he’d wooed her out of her villainous purpose. He might have, too, if she’d been alone. His luck was definitely out. First he’d taken the bit between his teeth to tell Uncle Duncan the bad news, and then he’d been robbed.

Head aching, he probed the tender spot on his scalp. Brandy might help. He fumbled in his cloak pocket and pulled out his flask. He rubbed some of the alcohol on the lump, hissing at the sting, then took a swig. The servants must have been terrified.

The abominable pounding in his head increased. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the squabs, uttering a sigh when, some twenty minutes later, the carriage crunched on gravel to a gentle stop.

Beauworth Court.

Johnson pulled open the door and let down the steps. ‘My lord? Are you all right? I darsen’t stop on the road.’

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ Garrick said, forcing a smile.

He allowed the coachman to help him out of the carriage and glanced at the house. Stone lions guarded the wide granite steps to the front door. Columns, illuminated by torches, rose up to the first floor with Palladian grace and the lower windows blazed with light. Uncle Duncan must be entertaining. Garrick bit back a groan. Merde. He really did not want to be here.

‘Dan,’ he called out. ‘Bring my coat, please.’

Dan jumped down with alacrity and dived into the coach for the garment. ‘’Ere, my lord.’

‘Good. Stay close to me.’

The gravel stabbed into the soles of his feet as he hobbled up to the front door. ‘Damn, blasted wench.’ Why the hell she had stolen his boots he could not imagine.

On cue, the door opened. The butler, a slick-looking fellow Garrick didn’t recognise, stared down his nose. Recovering swiftly, he stepped back with a bow. ‘Welcome home, my lord.’

Hah. ‘Thank you.’ He handed over his greatcoat and headed for the arching sweep of staircase leading to the first-floor chambers.

A door opened. Light spilled from the dining room. A heavily built figure, his military bearing obvious, strode purposefully across the black and white tiled floor. Duncan Le Clere, his father’s cousin, and Garrick’s trustee for twelve more months.

Dan ducked behind Garrick as Le Clere’s stern gaze took in the scene. ‘The devil. What is the meaning of this?’

‘Got held up.’ His uncle stiffened. ‘By highwaymen.’ Garrick chuckled at his pathetic humour.

Le Clere quickened his pace. ‘Are you injured?’ He must have caught a whiff of the brandy because he recoiled. ‘Or drunk? Is this one of your pranks?’ Nothing slipped past Uncle Duncan with regard to Beauworth and its heir.

‘I might be a trifle foxed, but I am fully in possession of my faculties, I assure you. The damned rogues relieved me of my valuables and my boots.’

Two more men hurried into the vestibule: Matthews, the Beauworth steward, and Nidd, his father’s ancient valet who did for Garrick on the rare occasions he came home.

‘Johnson told us what happened,’ Matthews said. ‘These villains need teaching a lesson.’

And the beefy Matthews was ready to mete out the punishment. The thought of the saucy little wench in his hands did not sit well in Garrick’s stomach.

‘Send for the constable,’ Uncle Duncan said, taking in Garrick’s stockinged feet with raised brows.

‘Not tonight.’ Garrick put a hand to his head and winced. ‘The morning will be soon enough. Right now, I’m for bed.’

Uncle Duncan’s lips flattened. He glanced toward the dining-room door. ‘I expected you for dinner. It takes more than a contretemps with the lower orders to keep a man from his duty.’

‘Johnson said they struck his lordship on the head,’ Matthews said.

The hard expression on Le Clere’s face dissolved into concern. ‘I’m sending for the doctor.’

The doctor who would poke and prod and wonder. Garrick put up a hand. ‘A small lump, nothing more. I’ll be well by morning.’

The broad back stiffened. ‘A knock on the head, Garrick…I’m only thinking of your welfare.’

‘Don’t fuss.’

Le Clere recoiled. ‘But your head, Garrick…’

A black emptiness rolled out from the centre of Garrick’s chest. He knew what Le Clere was thinking, knew from the wary look in his eyes what he feared, and Garrick honestly couldn’t bear it.

Garrick rubbed his sore knuckles. Le Clere hadn’t yet heard of the latest débâcle. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. I know you mean for the best, but I do not need bleeding or quacking tonight.’

His uncle blew out a breath. ‘As you wish. But if there is any sign…’ He had no need to finish the sentence; his gentle smile said it all.

Garrick nodded. ‘I’ll see the doctor.’

‘So be it,’ Le Clere said. ‘I cannot tell you how good it is to see you come home. There is much to be done, much to learn in the next twelve months, my boy.’

Hardly a boy. And the rest of it would wait for the morning. ‘Good night, Uncle. Oh, and I brought my tiger.’ He gestured to Dan, who moved closer to Garrick.

Uncle Duncan glanced at Dan with pursed lips. ‘He belongs in the stables.’ He waved off Garrick’s response. ‘We will talk tomorrow when you feel better. I must attend my guests. Take good care of him, Nidd. Matthews, I’ll see you in the library later.’ He hurried back to the dining room. The stolid Matthews bowed and wandered off.

Nidd’s cadaverous face was anxious. ‘He worries about you, my lord. You know how he is.’

Garrick sighed. ‘Yes, I know. But I wish to God my father hadn’t tied up my affairs so tightly.’

‘You were but a babe then, my lord. He never dreamed he and your mother would go so early.’

A regretful silence filled the empty hall. It pressed down on Garrick’s shoulders with the weight of a granite mountain. He started up the stairs.

In Garrick’s chamber, Nidd eased him out of his coat and went to work on his waistcoat. Garrick gestured at the boy hovering by the door. ‘My wits were begging. I should have sent him to the stables with Johnson.’

‘Leave him to me, my lord. I’ll see he gets there. Johnson was only saying the other day as how he could use more help.’

That was another thing. Why so few servants in the house? In the old days there had been a footman stationed in every corridor. Was something wrong? Did he care?

Sometimes he did, and then the old anger he worked hard to contain erupted.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, seeking distance. ‘Take him now, Nidd. I can manage the rest.’ Since he had no boots to be pulled, undressing presented no difficulty. He opened his eyes as Nidd headed out of the door with his hand on Dan’s bony shoulder. ‘Tell Johnson to treat him gently. He’s had a rough go of things.’

Eyes closed, he unbuttoned his waistcoat. His fingers sought his fob. Gone. He stared down at his right hand in horror. His signet ring, a family heirloom handed to him by his dying father, had also been stolen. Rage surged in his veins like a racing tide. This time he let it flow unchecked.

To lose the family signet ring now, when he’d finally made his decision. Damn the woman to hell. Damn him for falling under the spell of her kiss.

He pulled off his shirt and glared at the tester bed with its carved insignia of the Beauworth arms, the shield and white swan, a motif repeated on the moulded ceilings here and in the dining room. The same as the insignia engraved on his ring. He would have it back if he had to search the length and breadth of England. And when he found the woman, she’d rue the day she’d crossed his path.

Chapter Two

The next morning after an early breakfast, Garrick traversed the second-floor gallery and made his way down the sweeping staircase. Marble pillars rose gracefully to support the high carved ceiling above a chequerboard floor he couldn’t look at without cringing. He took a deep breath, determined to keep his composure. He was twenty-four, not a scared child. Nor would he allow his uncle’s cautious solicitude to get under his skin.

He knocked on the library door out of courtesy and entered. A polished oak desk dominated one end of the long room. Immersed in the papers before him, Uncle Duncan did not look up.

While Garrick waited, memories curled around him like comforting arms. He could almost hear the sound of his father’s voice, the feel of his arm heavy on Garrick’s young shoulders as they poured over maps or Father told him stories of military engagements.

On a warm spring day like today, the bank of French windows leading to the balcony would have been thrown open, a breeze heavy with the scent of roses from the garden beyond billowing the heavy blue curtains into the room.

He hated the smell of roses.

Garrick blinked, but the recollections remained imprinted in his mind like a flame watched too long: a young boy wide-eyed with imagination, his father, jabbing at the air with his cigar to emphasise some important point of strategy, until Mother chased them out into the fresh air. How his father’s face lit up at the sight of her as she swept in, her powdered black hair piled high, her hands moving as she talked in her mix of French and broken English.

Mother. Like an icy blast from a carelessly opened door in mid-winter, the warmth fled, leaving only a cold, empty space in his chest. Hell. He would have sent Le Clere a note if it had not been cowardly.

It seemed to require every muscle in his body, but somehow Garrick slammed the door on his memories. He locked them away in the same way his father’s old maps were locked behind the panelled doors of the library bookcases and focused his attention on Le Clere instead. Uncle Duncan, as Garrick had called him since boyhood, had grown heavier in the past four years. His ruddy jowls merged with his thick neck. His hair was greyer, but still thick on top and he looked older than his fifty years, no doubt dragged down by responsibility. As if sensing Garrick’s perusal, he raised his flat black eyes. Garrick resisted a desire to straighten his cravat. Damn that the old man could still have that effect on him.

‘Well, Garrick.’ The deep voice that had once reached to the far reaches of a parade ground boomed in the normally proportioned library. Garrick winced as the harsh tone reverberated in his still-sensitive skull. ‘What can you tell me about these villains that set upon you last night? This is the second time they’ve robbed a neighbourhood coach.’

Le Clere took his responsibilities as local magistrate seriously, but Garrick was not going to let the morons who stood for local law and order frighten off the cheeky rogues before he recovered his property.

He shrugged. ‘They were masked. I barely caught a glimpse of them before I was struck.’ He was certainly not going to admit being bested by a woman and he trusted Johnson to say nothing about that kiss. Damnation. Was he smiling at the memory?

A sour expression crossed his uncle’s face. ‘I had hoped you would be of more help. The last man robbed babbled on about a ghost.’ He inhaled deeply. Garrick recognised the sign. Control. Uncle Duncan hated it when things did not go according to plan. Apparently in command of himself once more, Le Clere smiled. ‘No matter. I am simply glad you are here, ready to devote yourself to duty at last.’

The old man’s hopeful expression twisted the knife of guilt in his gut. He didn’t like to tell him that the command to come back to Beauworth and take up his responsibilities had tipped the scales on his decision.

‘I’ve decided to join the army.’

Le Clere sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘You can’t mean it.’

The anger, always a slow simmer in his blood, rolled swiftly to a boil. He let it show in his face. ‘I certainly do.’

Bushy brows snapped together. Red travelled up his uncle’s neck and stained his cheeks, the same signs of anger he experienced himself. The old man opened his mouth and Garrick awaited the parade-ground roar that had cowed him as a boy, but now left him cold. Le Clere inhaled a deep breath and when he finally spoke, his voice rasped, but remained at a reasonable pitch. ‘What brought about this sudden decision?’

‘I found one of Father’s campaign diaries in the library in town. I’d forgotten how much he loved serving his country. I want to follow in his footsteps.’

Le Clere slammed a fist on the table. ‘I should have burned them. Your father should never have risked his life in that manner, neither should you.’

‘Father never got a scratch.’ Only to come home and die in a hunting accident. Garrick rose to his feet. ‘I have made up my mind. There is nothing you can say to convince me otherwise.’

Le Clere sagged against the chair back. ‘All these years I’ve worked to safeguard your inheritance and you treat it as if it is nothing.’ He pressed his fingers against his temple.

More guilt. As if he didn’t have enough on his conscience. ‘I have to go.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘Nothing has occurred since that incident at school. You’ve been all right. Got it in hand.’

It. The Le Clere curse. Something they’d never spoken of since the day Garrick had learned what it meant.

‘No.’ He stared at his bruised knuckles. If his cousin Harry hadn’t pulled him off the bullying bastard beating Dan with a pitchfork, Garrick might have been facing charges of murder instead of spending every penny of his allowance to pay the man off.

‘I see,’ Le Clere murmured, his brow furrowing. ‘Then you’ve wasted these past few years. Learned nothing of the estate. The war cannot continue much longer, surely, and when you come home I may not be here. I’m getting old, Garrick.’

Garrick tugged at his collar. ‘I’m going.’

‘Wait until my trusteeship is over. Twelve months is not such a long time. Learn all you can. Set up your nursery, get an heir, then go with my blessing.’

The older man’s anxiety hung in the air like a sour London fog. If it hadn’t been impossible, Garrick would have sworn he smelled fear. He could not let his uncle sway his purpose. Staying in England as he was, a shortfused powder keg waiting to go off at a stray spark, was asking for trouble.

‘I’ve made up my mind.’

Le Clere ran a hand through his hair. ‘What if you are killed? What will happen to Beauworth?’

‘Cousin Harry is the heir.’

His uncle stilled. He seemed to have turned to a block of granite. His face reddened. The veins in his neck stood out above his neckcloth. Dear God, was he going to have an apoplexy? ‘Uncle, please. Don’t upset yourself.’ Garrick strode for the table beside the hearth and poured a glass of brandy from a decanter. He took it back to Le Clere. ‘Drink this.’

His uncle accepted the brandy with a shaking hand. It hurt Garrick to see the liquid splash over the side. Le Clere took a long swallow. He stared into the bottom of his glass. ‘How long will this visit last?’

He’d planned only to collect his mare and bid his uncle farewell. The loss of the signet ring meant a delay. It must be there for Harry. At least his cousin didn’t carry the Le Clere taint in his blood.

‘A week.’ Plenty of time to run the little vixen to earth.

Uncle Duncan straightened. ‘Then we will use what little time we have to good purpose.’

Inwardly Garrick grimaced. If the old man hoped to use the time to change his mind, he was in for more disappointment. More guilt. Ah, well, if he was going to be here anyway…‘All right.’

Le Clere beamed. ‘Good. Very good. Let us get started right away. After all, we don’t have much time.’

Garrick hid his sigh of impatience. What he really wanted to do was question the local people about the thieves. It would be hours before he could make his escape. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

Eleanor bore most of the weight of the basket swinging between her and her twelve-year-old sister, Sissy, as they trudged through Boxted toward their cottage. After the hour’s walk from Standerstead on a fine spring day, a trickle of sweat coursed down between her shoulder blades.

Her stomach tightened. Time was running out and here she was having to spend it buying supplies instead of doing something about her predicament.

As they passed the Wheat Sheaf across from the village green, a tall man with broad shoulders in snug burgundy velvet stepped into their path. The Marquess of Beauworth. No one but the local lord of the manor would cut such an elegant figure in the humble village of Boxted. And he looked lovelier in bright sunshine than he had beneath the moon.

Eleanor’s heart skipped and her breath caught in her throat as she fought not to stare at him, tried to pretend he wasn’t there. But when he bowed with elegance and a charming smile, she could pretend no longer. She halted.

‘Good day, ladies.’ His deep voice sounded intimate, seductive.

A disturbing surge of exhilaration heated her cheeks and sent shivers tingling from her chest to her toes. The man was downright dangerous if he could do all that with a smile. And she did not like the puzzlement lurking in his amber-lit brown eyes. Please, don’t let it be recognition.

She bobbed a small curtsy. ‘Good day, my lord.’

‘May I help you with that heavy basket, miss?’ he asked.

Before Eleanor could respond that he need not trouble, Sissy piped up with a cheeky grin and a look of relief in her dark brown eyes. ‘You can help me.’

Eleanor groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t the child hold her tongue for once? ‘Sissy, please. You must excuse my sister, my lord, she is too forward.’

‘Why, I believe she is just truthful. It would not be at all out of my way, you know.’ With a smile warm enough to melt an icicle in mid-winter, he grasped the handle of the basket.

Fate in the shape of a black-haired imp had taken the decision out of Eleanor’s hands. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She released the handle and he hefted the basket as if it weighed nothing at all.

‘It is a remarkably fine day, is it not, Miss…?’

‘Brown. Ellie Brown, sir, and this is my sister, Sissy.’

‘Miss Brown, Miss Sissy Brown.’

He bowed politely to each of them in turn as if they were gentry and not simple village misses. If it was possible, her heart beat a little faster. For the first time in weeks, she felt valued. Her cheeks flared hotter than before. Lord, what would he think?

‘You have just come from the market?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my lord. For baking supplies.’

‘Ellie makes the best biscuits in the whole world.’ Sissy added, ‘I think she should sell them.’

Eleanor wanted to put a hand over her sister’s mouth. She was far too ready to confide anything to anyone. She quelled her irritation as the Marquess smiled winsomely at the vivacious child peeping admiringly up at him. Clearly he applied his charm to any female who crossed his path. She resented the pang of something unpleasant in her chest as he directed his lovely smile at Sissy.

‘I hope I might try some one day,’ he said.

Outwardly polite and ineffably charming, while inside there lurked the worst sort of rake. A man who had done untold damage to her family. The strangely weak feelings she had around him were inexcusable. She scowled at Sissy behind his back.

Seemingly impervious to Eleanor’s stare, Sissy gave a little skip. ‘Perhaps you would like to buy some.’

Now the child sounded like a merchant. Access to Beauworth Court might solve their problems, but not at the cost of involving her innocent sister. ‘Silly girl. The Marquess will not be in the habit of purchasing food.’

‘Very true, Miss Brown, but I will mention your talents to Mrs Briddle, our cook.’ His dark gaze searched her face. Against her will, her gaze roved over the elegant lines of his bronzed features. Definitely foreign looking. And that French accent made her toes curl. Mortification dipped her stomach. This must stop.

‘Miss Brown, I have the strangest feeling we have met,’ he said. ‘Before I went away to school, perhaps?’

Surely he would not recognise her as Lady Moonlight. ‘It is not possible, my lord.’ How breathless she sounded. She inhaled deeply, willing her pulse to stop its gallop. ‘We only moved here recently.’

‘In London, then?’

‘I’ve never been to London.’ Fortunately she hadn’t. With the deaths in her family, her come-out had been postponed for three years in a row and if she didn’t sort things out soon, would probably never occur. Not that she minded. Primping and simpering had never suited her temperament.

‘We lived in Hampshire—’ Sissy announced.

Eleanor gave her a little pinch to stop the flow of words.

‘Ouch,’ Sissy cried. She rubbed her arm and glared balefully at Eleanor.

Eleanor bent over her. ‘Oh dear, have you hurt yourself?’

‘No. You—’

‘Good.’ She straightened ‘This is our cottage, my lord.’ She pointed at the last dwelling in the row of five. Beyond it, fields of hay and ripening corn spread as far as the eye could see. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’ She took the basket from his grasp. ‘Come, Sissy.’

Uncomfortably aware of his gaze on her back, Eleanor kept her shoulders straight and her eyes firmly focused on her front door. She would not look back. Next time they met, she would be ready for him and his winsome smile.

Like a connoisseur of fine wine, Garrick savoured the gentle sway of Miss Brown’s hips and her proud carriage as she negotiated the wooden plank across the sluggish stream running alongside the road. As if she’d forgotten him completely, she opened the gate and walked up the short path through the unkempt patch of garden.

With guinea-gold hair pulled back beneath her plain straw bonnet and her serious expression, she presented a delicious picture of demure English womanhood. Somehow she put the sophisticated ladies of London in the shade. Prim and proper as she seemed, the confused blushes on the creamy skin of her face indicated an interest. None of his former loves had ever coloured so divinely. Although her wide-set, dove-grey eyes set in an oval face observed him coolly enough, they warmed to burnished pewter when she smiled with a heartstopping curve of two eminently kissable lips.

How extraordinary to find such a beauty in sleepy Boxted.

The feeling that he knew her remained. He combed his memory without success. Eventually he would remember. Miss Ellie Brown was not a female a man would easily forget. Not when the mere sight of her had pulled him away from his purpose at the inn. An instant attraction that was not plain old-fashioned lust, so swift to rouse when he’d kissed Lady Moonlight. Rather, the purity shining in her face had evoked a different kind of admiration. Not one he’d had much experience with. And yet the spark of innocent passion he’d sensed running beneath the modest appearance offered an irresistible challenge, even if it could result in no more than harmless dalliance for a day or two.

He returned Miss Sissy’s cheery wave as she followed her sister inside.

He frowned. The cottage, like the others in the row, sagged like an ancient crone. Mortar crumbled around the windows and patches of stone showed through the rendering. Nesting birds had pitted the moss-covered thatch, while the stench of stagnant water hung thick in the air. He narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t noticed any problems with the estate’s finances during his session with his uncle this morning, but in his father’s day, these cottages had been well-kept abodes. Perhaps he needed to look a little closer.

He turned his steps for the Wheat Sheaf where he’d abandoned his horse and his tankard of ale for a pretty face and a well-turned ankle. The local men must know something about the highway robbers. A glass of heavy wet should loosen their tongues.

Her heart having settled into its normal rhythm after her encounter with the Marquess, Eleanor set a batch of cakes to cool in the pantry. The sweet smell of baking reminded her of helping her mother in the medieval kitchen at Castlefield. The servants had grown accustomed to the sight of their Countess, the daughter of an impoverished gentleman parson, in a starched white apron over her gown and flour up to her elbows. As soon as Eleanor had been old enough to stand on a stool, she had loved helping Mother, breaking the eggs into a little cream-and-brown china bowl, learning the art of baking the lightest of confections, creating something from nothing. It was the only thing she and William had not done together, though he wolfed down the results of her efforts cheerfully enough.

Sweet memories. Best not to let them intrude. She shivered and rubbed her arms briskly against the chill. The fire, the bane of her existence, had gone out again. It seemed to have a mind of its own. A mean mind. Every time she turned her back, it died. Or it smoked.

She opened the outside door. Cuddling Miss Boots, a tabby cat of questionable heritage, Sissy sat reading in the shade of a straggly rosebush.

‘Fetch some wood, please, Sissy,’ Eleanor called out.

The child glanced up with a pout. ‘Why do I always have to fetch the wood?’

‘Please, don’t whine. I need your help. It’s not too much to ask.’

Sissy grumbled her way to her feet. Eleanor returned to her nemesis. This time she would make it behave.

For once, the paper spills caught with the first spark of the flint and the slivers of kindling flared to light with a puff of eye-stinging smoke. Where was Sissy?

Eleanor ran to the front door. Her jaw dropped. Sissy had her head beneath the bush apparently trying to rescue Miss Boots.

‘How could you?’ Eleanor cried. ‘You know I need firewood.’

Sissy jumped guiltily and dashed for the pathetic pile of logs against the wall. ‘Coming.’

‘Really, Sissy. I had it lit. Now the spills and the kindling are burned and I have to start over.’ Eleanor wanted to cry. She snatched the logs from her sister’s hands and hurried back inside while Sissy ran back for more.

Jaw gritted, she laid the fire once more. The tinderbox shook in her hand. She struck and it failed to spark. Calm down. She took a deep breath and struck it again. A tiny glow dropped on to the tight twist of paper.

‘Please light,’ she begged. The fire flared. ‘Hah.’ She nodded in triumph and balanced the logs on top. Now for tea. She marched to the pantry. Hearing Sissy’s steps behind her, she called out, ‘Put the rest of the wood on the hearth and then set the table.’ She tucked a loaf of bread under her arm and grabbed a pat of butter and a jar of jam.

Sissy screeched. Eleanor whirled around. A lump of soot lay on the floor, a black monster writhing with red glow-worm sparks. The rug at Sissy’s feet smouldered. At any moment it might burst into flame.

‘Sissy, move.’ Panic sent her voice up an octave.

The child remained glued to the spot, coughing as choking black smoke rose around her.

Heart pounding, Eleanor dropped everything and ran. She caught Sissy by the arm and thrust her out of the front door. She flew back inside.

Rubbing her eyes, Sissy poked her head in. ‘The rug is on fire.’

‘Stay there.’ Flames played among the ragged ends of the rug. Glowing soot took flight in the draught from the door and landed on the tablecloth. It flared up. Oh God, soon the whole place would be alight. She glanced wildly around. Her father’s calm voice echoed in her ears. Smother a fire.

She ran to the bedroom, pulled a blanket off the bed and ran back to toss it over the flames. Smoke billowed up. Vaguely, she heard Sissy screaming, ‘Fire!’

The door burst open. A tall figure loomed through the rolling smoke like a warrior wreathed in mist. He wrenched the blanket from the floor and beat the flames into submission. The burning tablecloth went out of the window. Water from the bucket by the sink sluiced over the rug.

Eleanor peered at her rescuer through streaming eyes.

The Marquess of Beauworth flapped the singed blanket, chasing the last of the smoke out through the open window. ‘Good thing I was riding by. It looks like the day King Alfred burned the cakes.’

She stiffened. ‘It was the chimney, not my baking.’

He grinned. He was teasing. She tried to smile back, but as her gaze roved around the disaster, her shoulders sagged. The rug was naught but a charred ruin. A few minutes more and the house might well have burned to the ground. Sissy might have been hurt. Her legs turned to water. Heart racing, she dropped down on the sooty sofa. ‘Thank you, my lord. I dread to think what might have happened had you not been on hand.’

He shrugged. ‘You seemed to have things under control.’

She hadn’t, but she was grateful for his kind words. Her heart slowly returned to normal and she looked around at the mess.

Sissy’s head appeared around the door. ‘Is it out?’

‘Yes,’ Eleanor said. ‘But don’t come in. There’s soot and water all over the place.’

‘Your horse is loose on the other side of the stream,’ Sissy said. ‘Won’t she run away?’

‘She won’t go anywhere without me,’ the Marquess replied with a smile.

Sissy’s head disappeared.

Eleanor pulled herself to her feet, her knees shaking and her hands trembling. She began to roll up the remains of the evil-smelling carpet.

‘Let me.’ The Marquess took the rug from her hands. It followed the tablecloth into the front garden, as did the blanket.

He glanced curiously around the room. How he must scorn their poverty, whitewashed plaster bellying from the damp stone walls, sticks of furniture acquired by Martin from who knew where. Lit by a lattice window, the room looked positively dreary. She hoped the shame did not show on her face.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save the rug.’ He sounded sorry. She hadn’t expected that and she smiled.

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his teeth flashing white against his soot-grimed face. He looked nothing like the elegant Marquess she’d met earlier. She giggled. ‘You look like a sweep.’

He dragged a sleeve across his brow. ‘No doubt.’

Taking the bucket to the door, she called out, ‘Sissy, fetch water from the well. Bring it back and then come inside.’

She turned back to her rescuer. ‘Will you take tea with us?’

He hesitated. What was she thinking, inviting someone like him to take tea? In her present circumstances, she was far beneath his touch. She tried to hide her chagrin with a diffident shrug.

He smiled and her heart did a back flip. ‘Yes, thank you.’

She knew she was beaming at him, but she couldn’t help it. She dashed for her pitcher of water in the bedroom. She filled a small bowl, setting a cloth, soap and towel alongside it.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Use this to wash. There is a mirror above the sink.’

The Marquess stared at his blackened hands. ‘Good idea.’ He took off his jacket, something no gentleman would do in the presence of a lady, but she couldn’t hold it against him. Not when he’d saved them. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and she saw that his forearms were strong, corded with sinew that shifted beneath his tanned skin as he scrubbed. A shimmer of heat rose up her neck. A little squeeze in her chest made her gasp.

She shouldn’t be looking. She shifted her gaze to his back. It didn’t help. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fine cambric of his shirt created more little thrills. Her heart gave a jolt at the weird sensation. What on earth was wrong with her? This man was her enemy.

Do something else. Tea. She’d offered him tea. Set the table. That was it. Gaze averted, she hurried for the dresser. Where was Sissy with the water?

‘Miss Brown?’

‘Yes, my lord?’ She turned.

As he wiped his jaw with the damp cloth, his gaze travelled over her face in a long, slow, appraising glance. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

‘You look quite smutty yourself,’ he said with a smile. He reached out with the cloth and dabbed at her nose. She couldn’t breathe. She snatched at the cloth.

Laughing, he caught her hands in his large warm one and wiped them clean. Such strong hands. She seemed bereft of the will to move.

He stepped back, his head cocked to one side. ‘You know, you have a streak on your chin. If you will allow me?’

Her heart thundered in her chest. Her body clenched with another delicious thrill as the tips of his fingers, feather light on her jaw, tilted her chin towards the light. She held perfectly still, afraid she might do something rash like place her hands on his shoulders for support. Her pulse raced unmercifully as gently, softly, he dabbed her chin, her cheek, her nose, the water delightfully cold on her heated skin.

Long dark lashes hid his eyes as he lowered his gaze to his task. The scent of sandalwood cologne and smoke filled her nostrils. His expression softened, then his glance flicked up and caught her watching.

Amber glowed like sunbeams in the depths of his warm brown eyes. He bent his head and his parted lips hovered above hers. Heat radiated from his body and her heart skipped and thudded.

She struggled to catch a breath, as if something tight restricted her ribs, and feared he would hear the soft pants for air she couldn’t control.

His cheekbone filled her vision, clearly defined above a lean suntanned cheek. A whisper away from her skin, his dark brown hair curled at his temple. She held her breath, while her heart raced wildly. For the life of her she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.

He brushed his lips across her mouth, warm and dry and soft. A mere whisper of the kiss he’d given her in the dark on a moonlit road.

A lightning bolt seemed to shoot through her body, hot yet pleasurable. She stiffened in shock.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you,’ he said, his voice carrying on a warm puff of breath against her chin.

She shivered, her mind a blank to everything except trembling anticipation.

A smile dawned slowly, lazy and sensuous. She could not tear her gaze from his mouth. He slid one hand behind her neck. ‘You are very pretty, Ellie.’

His husky voice seduced her ears. He was the sun and she the moon, pulled inexorably into his orbit. She leaned closer. He dropped the cloth and enfolded her in his arms, his hand spanning the arch of her back, his breath warming her lips.

What was she doing? It felt so right, but was very, very wrong.

The door crashed back on its hinges.

Eleanor jumped back. The Marquess turned away, but not before she saw a glimmer of rueful amusement in those warm brown eyes.

‘Here you are,’ Sissy announced. Water from the bucket slopped over her shoes. She glanced around. ‘Gracious, and after you spent all day yesterday cleaning.’

Eleanor busied herself clearing the table and wiping away the soot, praying that Sissy would not notice her heated face or agitated breathing. ‘Put some water in the kettle and the rest in the sink.’ Her voice sounded different, throaty, rough.

The Marquess grabbed the bucket. ‘Let me. That is far too heavy a load for such a small person.’ He poured water in the kettle and hung it over the traitorously merry fire.

Eleanor laid the table and, while the water boiled, she covered the old wooden table with another threadbare cloth, dusted off the bread and pot of jam she’d dropped unceremoniously on the floor and brought cakes from the pantry. The Marquess helped Sissy move the chair and two stools to the table. Somehow he didn’t fit with Eleanor’s idea of a rake. He seemed no different than her brothers. Well, not quite like a brother, but nice, friendly and fun.

‘Goody,’ Sissy said, ‘cakes. We never have cakes unless Martin comes, and not always then.’

‘Martin?’ The Marquess looked enquiringly at Eleanor, but it was Sissy who replied.

‘Mr Martin Brown, he’s—’ began Sissy.

‘A relative of ours,’ Eleanor put in swiftly. Sissy knew the story they’d woven, but sometimes she forgot. ‘He works nearby on his cousin’s farm.’

‘Please sit down, my lord.’ Eleanor bobbed a curtsy and gestured to the chair. She and Sissy took the stools. Eleanor poured tea and Sissy passed him the plate of cakes.

‘Special cakes,’ Sissy said.

He popped one in his mouth. ‘They are delicious.’ He took another and Eleanor smiled. It was nice to have a compliment from someone like the Marquess.

‘How long have you lived here, Miss Brown?’ he asked in formal conversational tones.

‘Almost one month.’

‘I see.’ He glowered at the hearth. ‘That chimney should be cleaned.’ His gaze roamed the room. ‘The walls are damp.’

‘The roof leaks a little,’ Eleanor admitted.

‘And the stream outside overflows,’ Sissy said, placing her cup in its saucer with a decisive clink. ‘We had water running right through the kitchen. And frogs.’

‘Please don’t think I am complaining,’ Eleanor hurried to say. ‘We were lucky to find a place we could afford so close to the village.’

He looked at her curiously. ‘Miss Brown, you are not from around here. Your accent is not from Sussex. Indeed, you both sound almost…’

What had he been about to say. Educated? Noble? She’d made no attempt to change her or Sissy’s speech. Not in this particular role. Once more he’d surprised her, this time with his perception. She tried to keep the guilt from her voice and face while the lies she and Martin had concocted tripped glibly from her tongue. ‘We were brought up on a great estate, similar to your own. Our mistress was fond of my mother and allowed Sissy and me to be taught with her children. I plan to become a governess, but have as yet to find a suitable position.’

‘I like it here,’ Sissy said. ‘I found Miss Boots in the garden.’

‘Miss Boots?’ the Marquess asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘My cat,’ Sissy said. She ducked under the table and pulled out the kitten. ‘See, she has little white boots.’ She pointed to the cat’s tiny white feet and legs.

‘So she does,’ he said. He pulled out his watch, a plain silver thing. Nothing like the glittering piece she’d stolen. ‘You will forgive me,’ he said. ‘I have another engagement this afternoon.’

And here he was listening to a child’s artless chatter. Eleanor tried not to let the chagrin show on her face. ‘Please, do not let us keep you. Thank you for allowing me to pay my debt in some small measure.’

He shook his head. ‘The pleasure is mine, I assure you.’

And she believed him. Despite their apparently different stations, he showed not a smidgen of condescension. Why could she not have met him in her old life?

Oh, Lord, what was she thinking? This man had ruined her life. But somehow she no longer felt any hatred. After all, he’d saved them from a fiery fate. Her change of heart had absolutely nothing to do with all those other hot sensations. Or his kisses.

He shrugged himself into his jacket and picked up the hat and cane he had dropped on his way in. ‘I will certainly tell Mrs Briddle that Boxted village boasts one of the finest bakers in all of Sussex. I am sure you will hear from her very soon. Good day, Miss Brown, Miss Sissy.’ He bowed and, with a touch of the head of his cane to his forehead, departed.

Eleanor, with Sissy at her side, watched him stroll down the path from the doorway. He paused briefly on the wormy plank across the stream, looking down into the water for a moment, before mounting his horse.

‘Eleanor, that’s it,’ Sissy said. ‘You can bake cakes for Beauworth Court and we will be rich again.’

The hope in Sissy’s voice brought Eleanor down to earth with a painful jolt. If she didn’t find a way out of this morass soon, things were going to get a great deal worse. ‘He’s a dangerous man.’

‘I liked him,’ Sissy said. ‘He has nice brown eyes.’

‘You only like brown eyes because you have them, too.’

Sissy laughed. ‘Well, he likes you. He looked like he wanted to eat you instead of the cakes.’

Eleanor put a hand to her lips as she recalled the way she had melted at the brush of his mouth. The man was a practised seducer. How many other young women had he brought to ruin?

Not to mention that if he hadn’t called in the mortgage, they would not be in such desperate straits. Perhaps Martin’s ransom idea had merit after all.

Chapter Three

Arriving back at the stables, Garrick found Johnson in the barn mending tack. ‘Where’s Dan? I want him to come with me on a small errand.’

‘I sent him to the kitchen for summat to eat. Got hollow legs, that lad ’as. Needs feeding up.’

Garrick nodded. ‘Saddle the quietest thing we’ve got for him, would you? I’ll look after Bess.’

They worked in the side-by-side stalls in silence for a few minutes.

‘Bright that lad ’e is,’ Johnson said to the jingle of a bit.

Garrick knew he meant Dan. He grunted agreement as he lifted his saddle on to the mare.

‘Good with the horses,’ Johnson continued. ‘You don’t have to tell him a thing more than once. ’Ad some rough treatment somewhere, I reckon.’

No point in keeping it a secret. ‘Apprenticed to a bad master. I convinced him to let him go.’

‘With your fists, I hear, my lord. Served the bastard right.’

A sick feeling roiled through Garrick’s gut. When he’d caught the bully laying a stick across the boy’s back, he’d seen red. The blood red of terrible rage. If Harry hadn’t separated them, the man might have cocked up his toes.

When it was over, he’d paid handsomely, both for Dan and for the damage he’d wrought, yet his gut still churned when he recalled his desire to spill blood. After years without incident, he’d lost control, let the inner beast slip off its chain. He’d been a fool to think he could beat the Le Clere curse. He wasn’t fit for civilised society.

If it wasn’t for his lost signet ring, he’d have left for Lisbon today.

‘Dan should not have said anything,’ Garrick muttered.

‘I winkled it out of him, my lord. I couldn’t understand why he flinched every time I raised me arm. Won’t do him any good around your uncle.’

Garrick patted Bess’s neck. ‘Keep the boy busy and he’ll do well enough. I’m surprised you don’t have more help.’

Johnson shrugged. ‘Mr Le Clere don’t like to spend a shilling when a groat will do.’

At that moment, Dan entered the stable whistling. Garrick leaned out of the stall. ‘Give Mr Johnson a hand, lad. You are riding out with me.’

Dan’s angelic face lit up. ‘Yes, my lord.’

From his side of the stable wall, Garrick listened to Johnson giving instructions. He’d been right to bring the lad here to Beauworth. He’d learn a useful trade as well as grow strong away from the foul London air. Today, he’d explain his plan for the boy’s future.

He finished saddling Bess and led her out into the sunshine. Dan followed a moment later, the old nag Johnson had found for him chewing on its bit.

‘Ready, boy?’ he asked.

‘Aye, my lord.’

They mounted and rode out of the stable yard towards the place where they’d been held up the previous night. If luck was with him, he’d find some trace of his attacker. Attackers, he amended. Damn it. He should have expected an accomplice. Her husband, perhaps? Or was she his doxy? A repulsive thought. Just thinking about the man with his hands on the saucy wench made him go cold.

What the hell was the matter with him? To be attracted to two women in one week seemed overly debauched even for him. Two very different females, too. One sweet, innocent, barely aware of her feminine appeal. The other, coarse and brash, a lure to the brute every civilised man held at bay.

What a base cur he was, to look forward to meeting the lady highwayman again.

Leaving the lane, they entered the woods. Ancient oaks and elms rose above their heads, the cool air smelling of leaf mould. A breeze stirred the branches and gold-dappled shadows shifted on the track. Here and there the damp soil revealed the passage of two horses travelling fast, one large and one smaller.

When they emerged into open country again, Garrick lost the tracks. Forced to dismount, he cast around.

Dan slid warily from his horse a short distance off. ‘There are hoof prints in the dried mud over here, my lord, leading that way.’

Garrick inspected the prints. They were the same as those he’d seen in the woods. ‘Well done, Dan. Let’s see where they lead.’

Walking their horses, they continued on. In the distance, hedgerows seemed to stitch the patchwork of green-and-gold fields together, and the dipping sun gilded the tops of emerald trees. Once in a while, a patch of soft earth, or dried mud, revealed evidence of their quarry.

Tucked in a valley near a copse of trees they came across an ancient-looking barn hunkered beside a stream-fed pond. ‘This looks promising,’ Garrick said.

Dan shifted in his saddle. ‘Do you think they are in there?’

‘Doubtful. But in case, I want you to remain here out of sight with our horses. Ride back to Beauworth if anything goes wrong.’

Straightening his thin shoulders, Dan dismounted and grabbed the bridles with a determined expression. The lad was tougher than he looked. He had to be, or he wouldn’t have survived.

Garrick cautiously crossed the clearing to the sound of twittering birds in the nearby trees. He peered through a crack in a wooden door barred and padlocked from the outside. He made clicking noises with his tongue and listened with satisfaction to the sound of stirring feet and the huffing breath of animals tethered inside. The faint gleam of a white coat in the shadowy interior confirmed what he had hoped. He had found their hiding place. And if they were keeping their horses in the neighbourhood, they no doubt expected to strike again.

He returned to Dan, his mind busy forming a plan. If this worked, he’d be leaving in a day or so. He looked into the face of the anxious boy and remembered why he’d brought him along. ‘I have some bad news for you, lad.’

The day after the fire, Martin’s bulk overflowed the wooden chair at Eleanor’s kitchen table.

‘Beauworth has been making enquiries,’ he said, glancing out of the window to where Sissy was sitting reading to Miss Boots. He lowered his voice.

‘Really,’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t hear the sudden increase of her heartbeat in her voice.

He nodded. ‘According to my cousin, he was worried they might try to steal the gold expected from London tonight.’

Eleanor straightened.

Martin’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a trap, my lady. Stands to reason.’

Traps sometimes closed in more than one way. ‘I think you are right.’ She crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt. ‘And besides, I wouldn’t dream of trying a robbery while you are gone.’

A sceptical expression passed across Martin’s rugged features, but he said no more. He flung a small leather pouch into her lap. It landed with a soft clink. ‘This is all the money I got from the first robbery. Not much, considering the danger.’

She nodded and gestured to the valise on the floor. ‘We need to make sure Lady Sissy is safe before we think of doing anything else.’

‘Did I hear my name?’ Sissy wandered in with Miss Boots draped across her shoulders. She rubbed her cheek against the cat’s soft fur.

‘Martin is going to take you to Aunt Marjory,’ Ellie said.

Tears pooled in Sissy’s eyes. She dropped to her knees by Eleanor’s feet. ‘No. You said I could stay with you.’

With a wince, Eleanor looked at Martin. He shook his head. He didn’t like this any more than Sissy did, but Eleanor could not let the little one stay any longer.

She ruffled the dark curls on the bowed head at her knee. ‘You like Aunt Marjory. She has cats. Miss Boots will have company.’

Sissy clutched Eleanor’s skirts. ‘Please don’t send me away, Len. Everyone else has gone. I’ll fetch the wood every day, I promise.’

Not even the loss of her parents to influenza or Michael’s freakish carriage accident had caused Eleanor so much pain in her heart as Sissy’s tears did now. Until William returned to take up his title, she and Sissy were all that were left of their once close-knit family. ‘This is just a visit, dearest. You always visit Aunt Marjory in the summer.’

A hiccup emerged from the face buried against her lap. ‘You won’t leave me there forever, will you? Cross your heart and hope to die.’

‘I promise.’ When Sissy looked up, she made the obligatory sign over her chest.

‘All right.’

The tone was grudging, but Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. She kissed the top of her sister’s head, stroked the glossy dark brown curls into some sort of order and blinked back her own tears. ‘William will be home soon, don’t forget.’ Anguished, she looked at Martin. ‘Time to go.’

He swung Sissy up into his strong arms. Eleanor handed up Miss Boots and followed them outside to the waiting gig. Martin lifted the child, her kitten and her bag into the carriage and climbed up beside her. He touched his hat. ‘I’ll return tomorrow.’ He set the horse in motion.

‘Give my regards to Aunt Marjory.’

Sissy stared at her mournfully. ‘I will.’ The child looked over her shoulder all the way down the road and Eleanor waved cheerfully until the gig was out of sight. Eyes burning, she closed her front door. If things went wrong, she might never see her family again. But she had to try to put things right.

Moisture trickled down her cheeks, hot at first, then cold little trails. Crying? She never cried.

She wiped her eyes and lifted her chin. This would be her last chance to make amends. She must not fail.

After pushing the bolt home in the door, she drew the curtains across the windows in the parlour and the bedroom. She pulled the trunk from beneath the bed she shared with Sissy and placed the pouch of money among the articles they’d stolen. Items she’d rejected for sale as too distinctive. One such sparkled in her hand. The Marquess had tried to seduce her in order to keep it. And she was a numbskull to be swayed by the charm of a man who had ruined so many lives.

She sat back on her heels, staring at her ill-gotten gains. She would do well to keep that in mind.

Dinner over, Garrick sauntered out of the house with his father’s sword under his arm. After a full morning going over the estate’s ledgers in his uncle’s absence, he now had an inkling of why Beauworth seemed less than healthy. Over the last decade, rents had declined. Why, he wasn’t sure. Le Clere would no doubt have the answer, but would he have a solution?

Modernisation might be the key. He’d heard others talking about new farming methods. He’d mention it to Uncle Duncan when next they met. Right now, he had to deal with the robbers.

In the stables, Johnson had Bess ready to go.

‘Some lucky lady you’re keeping warm tonight, my lord?’ Johnson said with a leer. ‘Not that nice Miss Ellie in the village, I hope. I heard as how you’d been showing an interest in that quarter.’

Garrick frowned. Blasted gossipmongers. In a small place like Boxted, it didn’t take much for rumours to fly. ‘Quite a different sort of entertainment.’ He showed the old man his sword. ‘Going to pay a call on Appleby. I’ve been promising him a return match since the last time I was home.’

Johnson nodded his head. ‘No doubt ’e’ll regret it.’

Garrick grinned. He had no intention of letting his coachman guess what he was about. He buttoned up his coat and pulled his beaver hat down low. ‘You know how Appleby is, so don’t worry if I’m gone for a day or two.’ It might take some time to track down the ring. If they’d sold it, he might have to follow it as far as London. Heaven forefend that they’d melted it down.

Dan must have heard his voice, for the boy came galloping down the ladder to the loft. ‘Can I come with you, my lord?’

‘Not this time, Dan.’

The boy’s face fell. ‘But you’ll be gone soon and—’

‘Don’t argue with his lordship,’ Johnson said. The boy flinched.

It only took one sharp word and the old fear resurfaced. Garrick’s ire rose, curling his hands into fists. The boy stepped back. Afraid of him, too. And rightly so, yet it cut him to the quick. ‘Lead the horse out to the yard, lad,’ he said quietly.

Dan hurried to comply. Garrick followed him outside.

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.

The scent of bacon assaulted his nostrils. Whether because it was being cooked outside, or because he was ravenously hungry, his mouth watered. He kept his face impassive and returned to his place against the barn wall.

‘Sit by the fire,’ she ordered. ‘We don’t want yer catching a chill.’

He curled his lip. ‘Not before you get my money, at least.’

Ben jerked the rifle. ‘Sit near the fire.’

Garrick cursed and sat as directed.

The woman slapped the eggs and bacon on to a slab of bread and handed it to him. She did the same for Ben. It tasted as good as it smelled. It would do no good to starve himself. He’d need every ounce of strength to escape these two.

She stood up. ‘We need fresh water.’ She walked away.

Moments later, he heard her gasp behind him.

Ben looked up from his food. ‘What is it?’

Garrick knew what had caught her attention. It was the reason he never removed his shirt in public. He glowered, but said nothing as she placed a cup of water beside him, her gaze still fixed on his back.

‘Look at this,’ she said to Ben.

Unfolding his brawny body with a grunt, Ben stood up and joined her at Garrick’s shoulder. He whistled softly through his teeth.

‘Who did this?’ she asked.

Garrick heard the pity in her voice and cringed. He did not need her sympathy, damn her. ‘An accident, years ago.’ Uncle Duncan had lost his temper. He’d expressed his regret as Garrick lay on his stomach, bandaged and medicated. Le Clere had never lost control like that again but it always served to remind Garrick what lay beneath the surface.

‘An accident?’ She stared at Ben, her face full of incredulity. ‘Have you ever seen…?’

‘In the army, I have. An officer’s cane can do that kind of damage.’

She reached out and pressed a finger on his back. Garrick jumped with a curse.

‘Sorry,’ she said, whipping her hand away.

‘Forget it,’ he ground out through clenched teeth.

‘Just give me my shirt if the sight troubles you.’

But once again she touched him, gently now, tracing the three straight diagonal lines across his back. His skin jumped and flickered, although her touch was as gentle as a butterfly, as light as a whispering breeze, almost a caress. He felt his chest constrict. The women he had known in London were interested in only one thing and it did not involve tenderness. No woman had ever touched him so softly, not since his mother…

Garrick squeezed his eyes tight, forcing down the memories. He pulled away from her questing fingers.

Ben shook his head. ‘They’re old, but no accident.’

She paced away. ‘If he’s to spend another night here, you will need to find a better way to make him secure.’

He glared at the woman. How long did they expect to keep him here? ‘Le Clere won’t pay you. He is not such a fool.’ He hoped.

‘I’ll find something.’ Ben’s voice sounded kindly, less harsh. ‘Up you get, lad. Sit over by the fence.’

Garrick rose to his feet. Silent and grim, Ben tied him to the fence with enough rope to shift his position. Tied up like a wild animal. Like one of his nightmares. He clenched and unclenched his hands, forcing himself to hold back the anger rising in his gullet. He took a deep breath. Then another. Control. Sooner or later they’d make a mistake.

Ben left them on foot, meaning he was headed for somewhere nearby. Were they in league with one of the local farmers? One of his tenants? An interesting and disturbing thought.

Forced into idleness, he watched the wench groom all three horses. The skin-tight breeches hugged the flair of her hips, and her slender thighs above riding boots were the stuff of pleasurable dreams. The full shirt and open waistcoat didn’t hide her narrow waist, but gave no impression of the size of her breasts. Those he’d felt, small and firm, when he’d kissed her.

He shifted, furious and uncomfortable at his body’s arousal. No doubt she knew how incredibly sensual she looked in her boy’s garb. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing he’d noticed. Instead, he closed his eyes to picture her face behind the mask, light eyes, certainly. But what colour hair lay beneath her ridiculous old-fashioned wig? Her eyebrows were fair. But her hair could be anything from red to gold. The sun warmed his skin. A bee bumbled by in a soft drone on air scented with grass and sweet clover.

Having finished with the horses, Eleanor decided to feed her prisoner before Martin returned and they left for the night. A platter of bread, cheese and pickles seemed a somewhat meagre offering for a man who must be used to the finest dining. On the way, she gathered up his now-dry clothes. The Marquess needed to get dressed. The sight of him sprawled on the grass like some Adonis really was too much, especially since he had fallen asleep, leaving her free to peek all she wanted. The way he had watched her from beneath half-lowered lids, while she groomed the horses, had made her feel hot and awkward. She’d been glad when he’d drifted off to sleep.

He looked so peaceful propped against the fence, his head lolling against a naked broad shoulder. Like an angel. A fallen one, with that sensual cast of his lips and the body of a heathen god. And there was just so much of him. Even stretched out on the grass, his male virility was overpowering.

Her breath became shallow as she stood just looking at the rogue. What would they have thought of each other if they had met under different circumstances? In London, perhaps? Would they have met? A proper young lady wouldn’t be introduced to a rake with his reputation.

Whereas a real lady highwayman might well take advantage of a handsome prisoner tied up at her mercy. A little thrill shot through her insides at the image. Dash it. How could she be so wicked? She really wished she’d never started along this path.

She set the plate beside him and the pile of clothes. He must have sensed her presence because he opened one eye, then the other and stretched. ‘You’ll forgive me for not getting up.’

Polite to a fault, even if there was an edge of sarcasm in his voice. ‘I’ll forgive ye. Eat. It’s all you’ll get today.’ She flopped down against the fence. ‘So you thought to trap us with yer talk of gold at the inn?’ she asked as he munched on the bread.

He swallowed and she watched the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple in the strong column of his throat with utter fascination. ‘I wanted my signet ring back,’ he said.

‘Not the watch?’

A glimmer of a smile curved his lips. ‘A gift from a lady with rather flamboyant tastes. You are welcome to it.’ His face sobered. ‘The ring was my father’s.’

The hollow note in his voice made her cringe—she knew how awful she’d feel if she lost her mother’s locket. But he only had himself to blame. If he’d not proved so intractable about the repayment of the mortgage, none of this would have happened.

Something moved at the edge of her vision. By her knee. A spider. Big and black and hairy. Walking up her leg.

She froze. A shudder ran down her spine. Held her rigid.

‘Looks like you’ve made a new friend,’ he said, grinning.

‘Get it off,’ she gasped.

He laughed. ‘It’s only a spider.’

‘Get it off me,’ she said through stiff lips, afraid to breath in case it moved. ‘Please.’ Her voice shrilled.

With a muttered curse, he leaned forward and brushed the horrid thing away with his bound hands. It scuttled into the grass. ‘There. It’s gone.’

Her skin prickled as if it was crawling all over her. Trembles shook her body. Her teeth chattered. ‘I hate them.’

‘It’s gone.’ He tipped her chin with the back of his hand, smiling. ‘I promise you.’ He lifted his arms, dropped them over her head, around her shoulders and drew her on to his lap. ‘You are all right.’ He pressed his lips to her jaw below her mask, let her nuzzle into his shoulder where she drew on his calm, comforted by the steady sound of his heartbeat.

Slowly her trembles dissipated. She felt safe, protected, for the first time in many months. And being held in his arms seemed like the most natural thing in the world. The chills of revulsion lessened. Heat rushed to her face. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ she muttered against silken skin smelling of soap and smoke from the fire, and another scent. Him.

‘We all have our fears,’ he said gently, as if he really understood. He tipped her chin with the back of his bound hands, the sight of the rope making her cringe. And when she met his gaze, his warm brown eyes showed concern. ‘All right now?’ he asked, then frowned. ‘Tears?’ He smoothed her cheek below the mask with his thumb, then bent his head and pressed his lips to the place he had rubbed as if to kiss away her fear. Like an adult with a child. Sweet. Kind.

An ache squeezed her chest. Guilt. And something else she didn’t dare name.

She dropped a kiss of gratitude on his cheek, missed and landed on the corner of his mouth. He angled his head and captured her lips full on, licking and tasting, while his forearm supported her nape. Tingles raced across her breasts. Her insides clenched.

Oh, heavens. At any moment, Martin would return. Yet she didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t stop. Not yet. Soon. She opened her mouth to his questing tongue. And she was lost. Lost in pleasure. Dizzy with the rapid beat of her heart. The lack of air. Sensations rippled though her body, pleasurable little thrills, warmth, and languid melting.

Her hands clung to his sun-warmed shoulders. Satin skin, firm muscles rippled beneath her fingers. Pure strength. Lovely wicked flutters deep between her thighs held her enthralled.

She lay her hand flat against the haze of beard on his jaw. He broke the kiss, turned his head, the roughened skin grazing her palm, and licked the base of her thumb, hot and wet, followed instantly by cool. A shiver of delight danced across her breasts.

She moaned at the sensual onslaught.

This is wrong, a little voice whispered. You will never be the same again. Get up now.

He shifted his weight and eased her on to the ground, cushioning her shoulders with his forearm. She opened her thighs at the nudge of his knee and a sweet burst of pleasure fired in her core.

‘Untie me, chérie. Vite. Quickly. Free my hands.’

Eleanor stared at him blankly.

‘Cut the rope,’ he pleaded, his breathing ragged and shallow, his voice hoarse. ‘Set me free. I’ll do nothing to hurt you.’ His soft, accented voice was an urgent enticing whisper in her ear. His thigh ground against her, pushing between her legs, creating hot surges of sweet agony.

‘A promise you will keep, my lord.’

Ah, no. Martin. Face scalding, she slipped under the loop of the Marquess’s arms and rose to her feet, breathing hard. What had she been thinking?

Martin cocked his rifle with a loud threatening click and the Marquess struggled to a sitting position.

Bewilderingly, her mind seemed to be full of molasses, thick and syrupy and deadly. He’d comforted her and she’d dissolved like butter in hot milk. Mute with embarrassment, she stared at Martin weighed down by a necklace of iron chain and shackles. He levelled his rifle.

The Marquess stiffened, as if bracing for…Oh God. Martin was going to fire. ‘Put the gun down,’ she yelled. ‘He is unarmed and bound. No harm was done.’

Martin held her stare for a long moment, then grimaced. He let the rifle fall to his side, but his body remained stiff, his movements jerky as he set the rifle against the fence. He pulled the Marquess to his feet. ‘Back to the barn for yer lordship.’

‘Take your hands off me,’ the Marquess said, steadying himself on his feet, his face as flushed as hers felt.

Was he ashamed of their kiss? And why did it matter? Once this was over, she’d never see him again. A pain she couldn’t fathom filled her heart. Oh, God, what was wrong with her? Kissing him like a wanton, all the while knowing Martin would return at any moment. She had lost her mind.

He’d been so kind about the spider, not laughing the way her brothers always had at her stupid female fear, that she’d forgotten they were enemies. And now Martin looked ready to commit murder. Something she would not allow. She picked up the Marquess’s clothes and the rest of the food and followed them into the cool depths of the barn.

Martin fixed the iron chain to the ring in the wall and fastened the shackle to the Marquess’s ankle before cutting the ropes free.

‘That’ll hold you,’ Martin said.

The Marquess glanced up from inspecting his chain. ‘Your accommodations leave much to be desired.’ The lazy drawl seemed at odds with the revulsion she glimpsed in his eyes. ‘Why not shoot me and have done? I’ll be damned if you’ll get any money.’

Bravado, she thought. And yet…

‘We’ll see,’ Martin said, stepping back.

‘Leave me alive and I’ll hunt you down like dogs,’ the Marquess said, in matter-of-fact tones.

He meant it. Was he taunting Martin deliberately so he’d shoot? Did he hate those chains so much? Bile rose in her throat, a sour taste of guilt. Her heart sank. She couldn’t see it through. She could not keep him chained here day after day, thinking they were going to kill him and watching his hatred grow.

She gazed down at him. He winked. More bravado.

Martin growled a curse.

In her heart she knew the Marquess would try again to charm her into setting him free. And she wasn’t sure how long she could resist, unless she kept away from him completely. It would be best if she left him to Martin. Best for her. Not for him, given Martin’s present mood.

Coward.

And what if his uncle wouldn’t pay the ransom? What would they do then? Not only would they not have the money they needed, they’d have the Marquess bent on revenge. If only she had something he wanted in exchange for the mortgage.

There was one thing he seemed to want. Her. And that was out of the question. Wasn’t it? Was it really too high a price to pay for what she’d done?

She inhaled a deep breath. ‘Bring ’is horse inside,’ she said to Martin. ‘We needs to talk.’

They did very little talking on the way back to her cottage after leaving their horses at Martin’s cousin’s farm. Anger surrounded Martin like a wall Eleanor could almost touch; while she regretted causing him upset, his grim silence left her free to mull over her options.

The Marquess did like her. He kissed her when she was Ellie. And he kissed her when she was Lady Moonlight. And instead of kissing her, he could easily have overpowered her before Martin came back. He’d been too busy kissing her to save his own neck, the rake, and she’d thanked him by chaining him to a wall. She winced.

But if she took this step, she’d be well and truly ruined. Wasn’t she already far beyond the pale of what was acceptable? A thief, and, if this afternoon was anything to go by, a wanton. Her stomach gave a horrid little lurch, the kind that stops your breath at the knowledge of the inevitable. It didn’t matter. She was the one who’d created the mess, she should be the one to pay the price. Not the Marquess. Certainly not Sissy and William. And definitely not Martin. It also would not lead to prison.

But she’d have to get Martin out of the way.

Once inside the cottage, Martin put his hands on his hips and glowered. She braced herself for a lecture. She was actually surprised he’d lasted this long before taking her to task.

‘What is it you want to say, Martin?’

‘I’d like to know what you thought you were doing with that lordling. Don’t you understand? He could…’ He took a breath. ‘You don’t know what these men of the world are like.’

A flash of heat scalded her cheeks. Martin thought of her as an innocent, but what had happened out at the barn wasn’t all one-sided by any means. Where the Marquess was concerned, it seemed she didn’t have an iota of control.

‘It wasn’t what you think,’ she muttered. ‘There was a spider.’ Martin knew how she hated the horrid crawly things.

‘Well, if you hadn’t been rolling around the grass you wouldn’t have seen a spider. I know what I saw, and he had his hands on you.’

And she hadn’t resisted. Not for a minute. Shame flooded through her at the look of disgust in his eyes, even though she knew he was trying to hide it.

‘Give up this nonsense, my lady,’ he pleaded. ‘Before you end up on the gallows, or worse.’

Unfortunately, worse seemed to be the only alternative. She avoided his gaze, fearing he would sense something amiss. ‘You are right. This is not going to work.’

Martin let go a long breath. ‘Thank God. I’ll go and set him free.’

‘No. I’ll do that first thing in the morning.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I need you to take a message to William. Right away. Then go to Lady Sissy and wait.’

‘You will be there when I get back?’

‘No.’

He looked startled, then worried. He opened his mouth to argue.

She forestalled him. ‘It is all in the note to William. I’m going to Scotland to visit Molly MacDonald—you know she’s been begging to see me for weeks. I can’t risk the Marquess discovering my whereabouts.’

The worry on his face didn’t ease. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I know I am.’

She pulled out paper and a quill and sat down at the kitchen table while Martin paced back and forth, as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind. She ignored him. First she wrote a short note to Mr Jarvis, telling him the money was on the way. Next a note to Molly, asking her to forward her letters on to William when they arrived and promising to explain the whole when she arrived in a few weeks’ time. ‘I want you to post these for me in the morning.’

Martin halted and nodded.

The next letter was to William. Explaining the mess she’d caused and begging him to wait with Sissy until he heard from her that all was resolved. She sanded and sealed the note. ‘You will take this to Portsmouth and leave it with the harbour master. Stress that it must be put into William’s hands the moment his ship arrives.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he understands. You will take care, my lady? Setting him free and all?’

‘Yes, Martin. I know exactly what I have to do. Give me the key.’

She handed him the letters and he gave her the key to the Marquess’s shackles.

‘I’ll wait until you have time to get well on the road,’ she said. ‘Tell William not to worry when you see him. And, Martin, whatever you do, do not bring him here. The Marquess is not to blame for this.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Something tells me you are keeping something back. You should go to your brother yourself. Tell him the whole story to his face.’

No fool, Martin Brown. ‘Martin, do this and I promise I will never ask you for aught else. Now make haste. You don’t want to miss William’s arrival.’

He sighed. ‘Very well, my lady. But I will keep you to your word.’

Chapter Four

Another night in the pitch black with only his mare’s soft breathing for company. Instead of kissing the wench, he should have forced her to untie him. Used her as a hostage. Instead he’d let his lust overcome reason.

That and her tears. He hated to see any woman cry. Something that had cost him dear over the years in farewell trinkets.

Where the hell was Le Clere? Surely a ransom note would have had him scouring the countryside? And Dan knew of this place. He would have told Johnson where to look.

An owl hooted. Had something disturbed it? Garrick listened. Nothing. He returned to his fingertip exploration of every board in the wall behind him, every crevice within reach on the floor. One little nail to poke in the padlock was all he asked.

A splinter drove under his fingernail, sharp and agonising. He cursed.

‘Is that you, my lord?’ The whisper came from the direction of the door.

Puzzled, Garrick peered into the impenetrable darkness. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me. Dan.’

Thank God. ‘Have Johnson or someone break open the door, boy.’

‘There’s only me, my lord. You told me it was a secret.’

Not what he wanted to hear. ‘Go for help. Hurry up.’

The sound of splintering wood drowned out his words. Would the lad never listen?

‘Where are you, my lord? ’Tis so dark, I see naught.’

‘Over here.’ Garrick kept talking until Dan stumbled into him. He grasped the boy by the arm. ‘Has there been no hue and cry at Beauworth? No one out searching?’

‘No, my lord. Everyone thinks you are visiting friends.’

No ransom note? How bloody odd. ‘Very well. Take my horse and ride back to the Court. Tell Le Clere he will need a hammer, a chisel, tools.’ Garrick rattled his chain.

‘Nay, not so much, my lord.’ Pride filled the boy’s voice. He fumbled with the chain, his breathing a dry rasp in Garrick’s ear. ‘Gimme a tick,’ he muttered. The sound of metal against metal, scratching, a click. The padlock fell with a clunk, followed by a rattle of iron.

‘Good God. I had no idea you were so accomplished.’

‘No, my lord.’

Garrick got to his feet. ‘Come on, show me where you got in.’ He followed as Dan felt his way along the walls to the broken plank. By widening it, Garrick was able to crawl out.

‘What on earth brought you?’ Garrick asked, looking around for signs of his captors. The waning moon lit a silver path across the pond and stars winked a greeting.

The boy shuffled his feet. ‘I was afeared you was goin’ to tip the old fellow a double. I thought you’d gone off and left me.’ He wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘I weren’t goin’ to stay there on me own. So I followed. I didn’t know where else to start.’

Garrick ruffled his hair. ‘Well, I’m bloody glad you did.’

‘I brought this.’ Metal glinted as Dan handed Garrick a pistol. ‘I borrowed it from Mr Johnson. If yer joining the army, I wants to go, too.’

The weapon dated from the last century, but looked serviceable and clean. ‘Did you ask Mr Johnson?’

He shrugged. ‘He would’ve said no.’

Incorrigible. ‘I don’t suppose you thought to bring bullets and powder?’

Dan’s teeth flashed white. ‘That I did.’

‘Damn me, boy, you are a marvel.’

‘I got a blade, too.’ The boy pulled forth a knife. A sliver of steel with a bone handle. A deadly weapon in the right hands, and also useful in opening padlocks.

‘Where did that come from?’

‘It’s mine.’ Dan caressed the blade with a fingertip. ‘A friend gave it me. I were going to use it on him if you ‘adn’t come along.’

‘Then I saved you from hanging. May I borrow it for a while?’ The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to teach his captors a lesson they wouldn’t forget. And with surprise on his side, they were in for a nasty shock.

The boy handed over the knife and Garrick tucked it inside his boot.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to ambush them inside the barn. Wait for me in the trees yonder,’ Garrick said. ‘Watch carefully. If anything goes wrong, ride for help. Can you do that?’

‘I’d sooner hide in the barn with you.’

‘I need you to stand watch. It’s an important job.’

Dan looked unconvinced, but he finally agreed and Garrick squeezed back into his prison. Dan replaced the broken plank behind him. ‘Be careful, my lord,’ he whispered.

‘I will. Try to stay awake.’

A snort greeted his words, then he heard the boy move off. Once back in his corner, he lay down in the straw with the manacle loose about his ankle. He was going to enjoy giving these rogues a taste of their own medicine. They deserved a little bit of terror, before he got his property back.

Dawn lightened the eastern sky, but it was still dark in the valley as Eleanor pulled back the barn door with shaking hands. If she had any sense she’d send Le Clere a note, tell him where to find his missing nephew and flee.

And they’d be out on the streets with no money and deeply in debt. No. Taking advantage of his attraction was the last arrow in her quiver. The fact that she found him equally attractive wasn’t a bad thing either. It would make playing her part easier, perhaps even enjoyable, although thoroughly disgraceful. She shivered.

She touched her mask. If only she could keep it on. But she couldn’t. He would have to know she was both Lady Moonlight and Ellie Brown. She’d have to tell him as much of the truth as she dared without actually admitting to her real identity. Once it was over, she’d disappear.

She took a deep breath and perched her hat on top of her boy’s wig. It must look strange with her blue dimity gown, but she wanted to break the news gently.

Dust motes danced in the fingers of light poking through the knots and gaps in the walls. The Marquess lay on his back in the straw, his chest rising and falling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His lashes lay like dark fans above high olive cheekbones. So peaceful. His horse blew out a breath, a snort of disgust no doubt.

She shook his arm. ‘My lord.’

He mumbled and opened his eyes, slowly gazing around.

‘What is it? It’s still the middle of the night,’ he grumbled. ‘The deuce.’ He stared at up her, rather warily, she thought.

‘My lord, you must listen, I—’

He sprang to his feet and grabbed her by the arm. She felt something cold and hard against her neck. A pistol.

‘Cry out and you are dead,’ he whispered.

The breath left her body in a terrified rush. He sounded angry enough to shoot her. Disaster. Her plan made no provision for this. She opened her mouth to speak and found her mouth drier than the well beside the barn. Her knees seemed to have lost all their strength.

‘Where is he? Ben?’ he asked.

His warm breath was hot in her ear, his arm a steel band around her waist. He brought the muzzle around to her face. ‘Answer me, wench.’

She swallowed hard, managing to salvage some moisture for speech. ‘He’s gone.’

He squeezed her harder, crushing her ribs with his steely grip. ‘When will he be back?’

‘He left for good this time.’

She made no struggle as he propelled her towards the door.

‘Let’s hope he values your life,’ he said with the pistol still pointed at her head. His body partly shielded by hers, he eased her out of the door. His heart knocked against her ribs, slow and steady, unlike hers, which seemed ready to leap from her chest. One false move on her part and she would find herself with a bullet to the brain. Not a preferred solution to her problems.

After a long pause, he thrust her away from him with such force she fell to her knees. Unmoving, she watched him check the vicinity of the barn.

Apparently satisfied, he returned to where she knelt, close to the spot where they had kissed the day before. He cast her a look of suspicion. ‘He won’t get far. When I catch him you’ll both be up before the beak.’

He was going to cart her off to prison. She reached into the pocket of her skirt.

He levelled his pistol. ‘Careful, wench.’

She froze. Her heart seemed to forget how to beat. ‘I brought you something.’

One eyebrow went up. ‘How sweet of you, my dear. A token of appreciation for helping you yesterday, no doubt.’

She opened her fingers. They shook and she steadied her wrist with her other hand. Beside the key in her palm lay his signet ring, a large solid circlet of gold mounted with heavy claws grasping the Beauworth shield. ‘I was going to set you free. I hid the ring from Ben after you told me you wanted it back.’

The Marquess’s lip curled. ‘Admit it. You lost your nerve. Very clever of you to realise I would come after you for the ring. I suppose you expected me to forget the whole thing in exchange?’

This was not going according to plan. He clearly hadn’t needed her to set him free and he accorded her only the worst of motives for returning his property. Even as it hurt, she acknowledged his right to think her despicable. She swallowed. What a fool she had been to risk everything on his seeming attraction, when a nobleman of his rank and physical beauty could have any woman he wanted.

She’d failed. Again. Moisture burned at the backs of her eyes. She sniffed. Whatever he decided now would be her punishment for letting William and Sissy down.

‘Tears?’ he said. ‘You don’t expect me to believe those are real, surely?’ He sighed and took the ring from her hand. ‘First, let’s see who you are. Then we’ll decide what comes next.’ He grasped the edge of the mask and whipped it over her head in one swift movement. Her hat and wig fell to the ground. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders. Now he would know everything. Hotfaced, she lowered her head, hiding behind her hair’s silky screen.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It cannot be.’

A cool hand cupped her chin. He lifted her face, swept back the hair.

‘Bloody hell. Ellie Brown?’ He could not have looked more appalled to see Satan himself. ‘There must be some mistake. This is some sort of trick.’

The disappointment in his expression took her aback. It was almost worse than his earlier disgust. Confused, she lowered her gaze, searching for the strength to follow through with her plan. ‘It is me. I’m sorry, my lord.’

He reached out to touch her face as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. ‘Hell’s teeth. You certainly fooled me finely. What game are you playing?’

For one mad moment she felt the urge to tell him the whole sordid story, to throw herself on his mercy. But she’d done that before, written to him asking him for more time to pay the mortgage without effect. No, far better to stick to her plan to bargain than beg for kindness. She dashed away tears that had somehow spilled over and took a deep breath. ‘Ben was angry about what happened yesterday. He took all the money. Whatever will happen to Master William now?’

He blinked. ‘Master William?’

‘Lord Castlefield. He got into debt. The bailiffs came and threw us all out, because of the mortgage due on the estate. I was trying to raise money to help him, but it got out of hand.’

His glowered. ‘More than out of hand, I would say, you little idiot. Why isn’t this man taking care of his own debts?’

‘He’s away. Fighting in Spain.’

He cursed softly. ‘Who holds the mortgage?’

She stared at him. How could he not know? Perhaps he just wanted to make her suffer. ‘You do.’

His jaw dropped. ‘Me?’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Don’t tell me. You were going to use my money to pay me back? You really are one brazen hussy.’

If she didn’t know better, she might have thought the glint in his eye was admiration. The straight line of his firm mouth and the hard set of his jaw said otherwise.

He looked down at the toe of his riding boots, scuffed and dirty, his thoughts hidden. ‘Why come here today? Why didn’t you cut your losses and run?’ He frowned. ‘Why not simply ask me for help without all this nonsense?’

‘His lordship’s lawyer wrote to you. You insisted the debt be paid or the house would be forfeit. When you said your uncle wouldn’t pay the ransom, I thought of something else.’ She winced as he narrowed his gaze on her face, his fingers playing with the strings of her mask.

‘Well?’ he prompted.

‘I was going to offer to…’ Heat spread from her face all the way to her feet. It had sounded so easy when she had gone over it in her mind. Now it sounded horrid. She swallowed what felt like a feather pillow stuck in her throat. ‘To do whatever you wanted in exchange for the mortgage.’ The words came out in a rush.

The thin black ribbons stilled. The silence lengthened. ‘This Lord Castlefield must be very important to you.’

‘Yes, he’s—’

‘Enough.’ He squeezed his eyes shut briefly. ‘I really don’t want to hear the sordid details.’ He stared down at the ring. ‘I really have been seven kinds of a fool about you. I respected you, Ellie. Thought you were a very different kind of woman.’ He shook his head. ‘You and Ben must have enjoyed your little jokes at my expense.’

‘I was desperate.’

He stilled. ‘Desperate enough to offer yourself to me in exchange for this Lord Castlefield’s debts.’

Spoken so softly, without emotion, it sounded dreadful. Her heart contracted, it grew small, and tight, all the joy and hope squeezed out of it as he laid out what she had become. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure it’s a compliment. How much does he owe?’

Her chest felt tight. ‘A thousand pounds.’ Her voice came out in a very small whisper.

‘An expensive roll in the hay.’ His gaze reflected some kind of cynical amusement. ‘And for how long am I to receive the benefit of your services?’

Shame emblazoned her face. She closed her eyes briefly. What was one more nail in the coffin of her pride? In a panic, she picked a number at random. ‘Three months. More if you want.’

Too much? Too little? She couldn’t tell from his wooden expression.

‘High priced indeed,’ he said, his face bleak. He made a faint sound of disgust, then strode impatiently to the remains of the fire and stirred the ashes with the toe of his boot, clearly trying to make up his mind. The acrid smell of wood ash filled her nostrils as fine dust puffed up. ‘I will let you know my decision tomorrow,’ he said finally, without looking at her.

Clearly, he wasn’t at all thrilled by her offer. No doubt he had plenty of beautiful women from whom to choose. Perhaps he wasn’t as interested in her as she had thought. And that made her feel just a little…hurt. Which was ridiculous. At least he hadn’t turned her down flat. Yet. ‘Yes, my lord.’

He dropped the mask into the dead embers. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I walked.’

‘Then I will take you home.’ He put his fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. She jumped, her heart pounding. Who was he calling? Had he been playing some sort of cruel game? Toying with her the way he had during their duel? And now the constable would ride out to cart her off to prison.

Approaching hoof-beats had her spinning around in time to see a gawky blond lad emerge from the woods. The lad who’d been up on the box of the carriage the night of the robbery. He rode across the meadow in an ungainly gallop. So this was how her prisoner had escaped.

‘Do you have any weapons on you?’ the Marquess asked softly in her ear. She jerked away from him. ‘No.’

‘You won’t mind if I check?’

She minded very much as his fingertips ran over her body. And even more when his large hands gently outlined the curve of her hip. She minded because her body responded with longing, whereas he looked completely unaffected, dispassionate. When he knelt before her, the tousled dark hair close to her stomach, and stroked between her thighs—gently, true, but missing not one inch of sensitised flesh—she minded so much that she felt dizzy and hot. Her breathing shortened, while her mind tried to assimilate the unnerving sensations on her skin.

He glanced up, an odd half-smile on his lips. ‘I am glad you told the truth this once, wench.’

Her heart gave a painful squeeze. She wished she could tell him the truth about everything.

The boy drew his mount up close to the Marquess, staring at her open-mouthed.

‘It’s all right, lad,’ the Marquess said. ‘Return home and let Johnson know I will follow shortly.’

Knowing her face burned scarlet, Eleanor avoided the boy’s curious glances by staring off into the distance. It wasn’t until he had departed that she dared steal a glance at the grim man at her side.

He had said he would take her home. Did he mean that?

‘Come. We will use my horse.’

He gestured her into the barn and readied his mare in silence. The ripple of muscle beneath his shirt as he worked reminded her of the strength she had seen in his arms on the previous day. Sculpted and bronzed, they’d been lovely. And his back had been broad and strong…and horribly scarred. She wished she hadn’t seen that. It made her feel pity, when she wanted to feel practical, businesslike, unmoved by what would happen next.

With her wrist in a firm grip, he walked her and the horse outside and placed his hands about her waist. They were warm and large, filling the hollow between her ribs and hips. He tossed her up on to his horse and climbed up behind her, pulling her on to his lap so she sat sideways across his thighs. She sat within the circle of his arms, wedged against his chest. Almost hysterical, still unable to believe how awry everything had gone, she held herself stiff and straight.

She ought to be flirting with him. Batting her eyelashes, charming him to do her bidding, but he seemed so remote, she couldn’t bring herself to try. He had his arms around her; she could feel the heat of his body against her back and yet she felt chilled. She’d hurt his pride. He’d as good as admitted it. After all, she was a woman and she had duped him finely. Not a good thing. Having grown up with two brothers, she knew how sensitive men were about those sorts of things.

Unable to bear the heavy silence any longer, she glanced up at his grim face. ‘I truly am sorry for what I did. It was meant for the best. It was all I could think of to save my…lord.’

‘Where is your sister?’ he asked abruptly.

‘I sent her to a relative.’

‘I wish to hell you’d gone with her.’

She wished she’d seen it as an option. She shrugged. ‘I needed the money.’

He leaned forwards, the hard wall of his chest pressing against her back, his warm breath tickling her ear, starting a series of tingles in other places she tried to ignore.

‘Miss Brown,’ he said, ‘you are a reckless wench. Someone needs to curb your wild behaviour.’

‘Someone like you?’ she asked, and gasped at the hiss of his indrawn breath.

Silence was obviously the better part of valour, so she held her tongue for the rest of the way.

When they arrived at her door, the early morning sun was casting long shadows in the lane outside her cottage. Soon the rest of the village would be up and about. The Marquess set her down in the road and walked her up the path.

What to say under such awkward circumstances? ‘Can I offer you tea, my lord?’

He hesitated, his brown eyes searching her face. He raised his hand and tipped up her chin. Her skin scorched where his fingers touched and she could not raise her gaze from his full mouth, as if her body yearned for the wicked sensations he engendered with his kisses. She held her breath. A delicious feeling of anticipation coursed through her veins. Her pulse raced. A shadow passed over his face. Regret? Longing? Or was it anger? It disappeared too fast to be sure.

He grasped her by the shoulders, turning her towards him, drawing her close. He touched his lips to hers. Her arms went around his neck. Her fingers twined in his silken hair. An instant surrender she could not control as he tasted her lips with infinite sweetness. A languor overtook her limbs.

He put her from him with an almost forced gentleness, as if he also fought some inner battle. Her arms felt bereft, her legs not exactly steady.

‘I will come and see you tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. He left without looking back. Eleanor went inside and bolted the door. She leaned against the old rough wood, a hand to her mouth. What had she done? She shivered. There had been no kindness in his face just now, no tenderness in his eyes. Just the heat of desire.

An answering heat flared in her body.

After bathing and changing his clothes, Garrick went down for breakfast and found his uncle already seated at the table with his usual two slices of toast.

Le Clere half-rose in his seat, relief warring with irritation for supremacy in his expression. ‘Is it your idea to cause me an apoplexy, Garrick? I was ready to send out a search party if you hadn’t returned this morning.’

The irony made Garrick want to smile. ‘I rode over to Appleby’s. Did you not get my message?’

His uncle cleared his throat. ‘You did not say you’d be away so long.’

The sensation of being smothered returned to Garrick in full force. Memories of his boyhood. ‘Well, here I am now,’ he said cheerfully.

‘You missed our meeting yesterday. I thought we had an agreement.’

‘I apologise for that. I did look at the ledgers before I went. I wanted to ask you if I could look at the rent books when next we met.’

‘Rent books?’ Le Clere’s eyes narrowed.

‘Revenues have fallen. I wanted to see if the rent books gave any clue as to why. See which tenants are in trouble.’

His uncle frowned. ‘They won’t tell you much.’ Garrick opened his mouth to argue. ‘But why not?’ his uncle said swiftly with a shrug. ‘Matthews collects the rents. I’ll ask him to bring them along, when he’s finished making this month’s rounds. How did you find the Applebys? All well?’

A rather swift change of topic, given how badly Le Clere had wanted him to take an interest in the estate. ‘All in the pink of health, Uncle.’ Fortunately for Garrick, they lived far enough away so that Le Clere was unlikely to run into them. Garrick pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘They sent their regards.’

The butler bustled in with a freshly filled toast rack, poured coffee in Garrick’s cup and left.

‘I have a rather unusual request,’ Garrick said, feeling a trickle of sweat run down the centre of his back.

Le Clere put down his paper with a genial smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I understand that you…er, rather that we, have called in the mortgage on a property in Hampshire? Castlefield Place.’

Le Clere stiffened, his eyes narrowed, the expression in them piercing. ‘What do you know about Castlefield?’

An oddly defensive response? Garrick maintained a relaxed expression. ‘Not a great deal, although the name sounds vaguely familiar. You must know of it.’

Le Clere grunted.

‘Ellie told me the son is unable to pay.’

‘Ellie Brown?’ An odd expression flickered across his face.

Blast. He hadn’t meant to mention her by name, but since Le Clere made it his business to know every tenant on the estate, he would soon work it out. ‘Yes, she was his servant.’

His uncle’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘A servant, eh. Well, it’s a straightforward foreclosure. What else did you want to know?’

Garrick’s jaw tightened under his uncle’s unblinking contemplation. ‘I want you to forgive the mortgage and put the man back in dibs.’

‘Is this some sort of jest?’ Le Clere’s laugh sounded incredulous. ‘Do you know the size of the debt? The estate needs those funds to maintain your extravagant lifestyle.’

Garrick leaned forwards and locked eyes with his uncle. ‘Are you telling me we are facing ruin? Is that why the servants have dwindled and Boxted is going to seed? You’ve never mentioned it before.’

Le Clere reared back. ‘Damn it, Garrick. Is that all the gratitude I get for looking after your welfare? It’s this bloody war of which you are so fond ruining everything. If you think you can do better, I encourage you to try.’

Struck with remorse at Le Clere’s obvious distress, Garrick softened his voice. ‘I didn’t mean to criticise. You’ve worked harder than anyone for the estate, but my father would never have called in a loan if it meant throwing a friend’s family out on the street and you know it.’

Le Clere sat silently for a moment, his expression pained, thoughts Garrick couldn’t read racing over his usually bland face. A smile dawned and he visibly relaxed. Unaccountably, Garrick’s hackles rose.

‘Finally,’ Le Clere said. ‘I suppose I have Miss Brown to thank for you taking a real interest in Beauworth. While it is not exactly as I hoped, it is an interest none the less.’ He leaned back, his lips pursed. ‘I have a proposition for you. I will do exactly as you ask, against my better judgement, I might add. As your trustee, I could refuse, you know. In return, do something for me. Remain here at Beauworth. Devote yourself. Dally with this young hussy, if you must, but get yourself married and produce an heir.’

Garrick felt the room rock around him. ‘I hadn’t planned to marry for years.’ If at all.

‘Garrick, be reasonable. I must see you settled before I relinquish control of the estate. It will ease my mind to know I did my duty, left everything properly ordered. It is what your father would have wished.’

He fought the guilt Le Clere invoked. ‘It isn’t what I want. Let Cousin Harry produce the next heir.’

Le Clere’s eyes had a suspiciously moist glint. ‘You are Beauworth. If you won’t do it for me, do it for the family name.’

How could he fight such devotion? ‘And the money?’

‘It goes against the grain, my boy. The estate is owed that money.’ He sighed. ‘But Beauworth needs its Marquess far more. Do your duty and, if you still want it when the title is secure, you’ll have your captaincy.’

Until he was of age, he could not access his funds without Le Clere’s cooperation. And, damn it all, what was being asked of him was not unreasonable. ‘I’ll give you three months. That should be quite enough time to learn all I need to know about the estate. But no more talk of betrothals.’

Le Clere narrowed his eyes. ‘What did Miss Brown offer in exchange? Her favours? Your women don’t usually last more than three weeks.’

His skin crawled. How did Le Clere know so much? ‘That is my business. I need a thousand pounds to pay off some of her pressing debts.’

His uncle blinked, clearly thunderstruck, but when he spoke his tone was soft and businesslike. ‘Very well. Come back in two hours and I’ll have it ready.’

Garrick supposed it could have been worse. And three months would be more than enough time for Ellie Brown. ‘Thank you for being so understanding.’

‘Dear boy, you forget, I, too, was young once.’

The oddly triumphant look on Le Clere’s face disturbed something low in his gut. He pushed the feeling aside. Why would he quibble? His uncle had given him everything he requested. Although at a price.

The bigger question in his mind was what Ellie wanted.

Nervous and restless, Eleanor spent her morning tidying up the cottage and baking. Then she washed her hair and coiled it neatly at her nape. She dressed in her finest gown, a sprigged muslin, one of the few she’d brought from home. Whatever the outcome of his visit, she would behave with dignity.

A rap at the door. Her heart pounded. He was here. She smoothed her hair, took a deep, calming breath and opened the door.

He looked wonderful. Clean shaven, his hair carefully ordered à la Brutus, his dark blue coat snug on his powerful shoulders. Wonderful yet stern, his jaw set hard, his dark eyes watchful, as if he suspected her of treachery.

‘My lord.’ She curtsied low and gestured for him to enter.

‘Good day, Miss Brown.’

His demeanour was so serious, her heart beat a warning of impending disaster. ‘Please sit down, my lord. May I offer you some tea?’

‘Thank you.’ He took the wooden chair.

She felt his gaze upon her as she moved around the tiny kitchen, setting out teacups and a plate of cakes on the cloth-covered table. He appeared stiff and ill-at-ease. It must be bad news. She handed him his cup and perched on a stool.

He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Brown, yesterday you made a proposal with respect to the relief of your employer’s financial difficulties.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Her voice sounded strained and tight. From the heat in her face she felt sure it must be crimson all the way to her hairline. She managed a smile. ‘My lord, I believe that we discovered some warmer feelings for each other than mere acquaintance. Even though you did not recognise me in my other calling, I very much appreciated your kindness to me and my sister these past few days.’ She was pleased to note that her voice barely shook.

He reached across and took her hand. Warmth travelled up her arm. His charming smile made an appearance and she knew everything would be all right.

‘Ellie, I think you know that I found you enchanting the first day I met you in the village. I have continued to feel admiration for you since that day.’ His serious expression returned. He placed a rolled document tied with a red ribbon and a package on the table between them. ‘I was shocked when I realised your deception. I was rude. I honour you for your loyalty to your employer. I am returning the mortgage without further obligation. There is also enough money to help with the debts. You can choose to stay, or you can leave without recrimination.’

She gasped, not quite able to believe what she’d heard. He was letting her leave?

He rose, prowling to the window to gaze outside. Against the light, the profile of his cheekbone seemed to be cut from something harder than mere bone and flesh.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. This was a test. A trap. He was seeing if she would keep her word. If she didn’t, he’d snatch up the papers and call their bargain off. Or was it something else? Something that made her stomach sink to her feet. She’d managed to disgust even a rake such as him. ‘You don’t want me.’

He swung around, his expression pained. ‘Not true. I do not wish you to enter into an arrangement that is distasteful to you.’

Distasteful? It ought to be distasteful, given all it would mean. She ought to be snatching up the papers and running for her life. And yet something in his eyes froze her in place. Raw hunger swirled in the dark brown depths, tightly controlled, yes, but there all the same. Not the heat of desire, although that was there, too, but a bleak deep-seated loneliness as he waited to bid her farewell.

Her foolish heart ached to ease his hurt. A wild desire to dispel that look from his eyes pulled at her soul. She’d made a bargain. Arranged it so no one would know. It was only for three months, but perhaps given time…

‘Go,’ he said.

The harshness in his voice said if she accepted his generous offer, she would never see him again. Torn in two, she stared at the documents.

He turned away, clearly expecting her to leave.

Go now, the voice of sanity whispered. She didn’t want to go.

Reckless Ellie, always too impulsive by half, crossed the room behind him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘My lord, I would not have suggested it, if I did not wish it.’

He lowered his gaze to meet hers, and in those dark depths she saw a lightening of his spirit and felt glad. Then he pulled her close and brushed her lips with his, a hesitant questioning kiss as if he doubted her words. A sweet kiss. Her body thrilled to his touch, her traitorous heart picked up speed.

She leaned close and teased his lips with the tip of her tongue, something she had imagined doing in her dreams.

He groaned against her mouth

A rush of pleasure heated her body. Two days ago had been the first time she had felt a man’s body, hard and strong against her own. And she’d liked it. She’d no idea, until then, that kisses created such internal conflagrations. And now she wanted more. He seemed equally inflamed by her bold responses. Crackling heat flickered between them like the electricity in the air before a storm.

He placed one hand behind her knees and one around her shoulders. He picked her up seemingly without effort and carried her into the bedroom, setting her on the edge of the small bed so that she faced him, her feet just off the floor, her knees touching his thigh. The intimacy sent heat to her cheeks.

He bent and kissed her mouth, a soft brush of his lips, back and forth, while his fingers worked on the fastenings of her gown. Little kisses rained down on her face, her lips and her neck. She shivered with pleasure. Her skin tingled wherever his lips touched. He pulled the pins from her hair. It fell around her shoulders, brushing against her cheeks, her neck. He ran his fingers through it, carrying it to his face and inhaling deeply.

‘Lovely,’ he murmured.

How easily she slipped down this path to dishonour, she thought as she reached for the buttons of his waistcoat. Was she really this wanton, or was it he only who tempted her into wickedness?

His sharp breath offered a reward for her boldness in the way her stomach clenched, as did the way he tore off his coat and helped her slip the waistcoat over his shoulders. He knelt and slipped her gown down to her waist, baring her stays and shift. He dipped his head to the exposed rise of her breasts and trailed butterfly kisses across skin so sensitive it shivered under his lips. Delicious torment. She moaned.

‘You are beautiful.’ The dark murmur as he gazed into her eyes sent waves of heat rushing to her core. There was more. She knew it in the way she wanted to touch and kiss and explore. Her fingers fumbled with the snowy white cravat at his throat and he chuckled. ‘In a hurry, are you?’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then untied the knot at his throat and she pulled the muslin free. The buttons of his shirt came next. Finally she had her prize. Feeling exceedingly brave and very naughty, she placed her hand on his bare chest. His skin was soft, sprinkled with crisp brown curls and warm. Her fingers tasted his flesh, marvelling at the underlying muscle beneath the satiny softness. She leaned forwards to kiss him on his breast the way he had kissed her. Again she heard his indrawn breath and her own little thrill. He liked her touch.

She drew back to see his expression. His eyes were dark, almost black, his mouth curved in a sensual smile, his breathing as rapid her own. She rejoiced in her powers of seduction even as she trembled at the knowledge of her ruin.

He pulled her to her feet and turned her around. His movements were gentle, but swift and sure and very male. He pushed her gown to the floor and pulled impatiently at the ties of her undergarments until they, too, slid to her feet.

Oh, God. She was naked. She was a fallen woman. Heat consumed her. Embarrassment? Desire. She no longer knew as he parted her hair and kissed a delicious spot beneath her ear, one hand around her waist and his hips tight against her buttocks. His other hand caressed her breasts. The skin tingled, tightened. His thumb brushed across her nipples. They furled into tight little buds, an achingly irresistible sensation. Weakness invaded her bones. Only his grip prevented her from falling. He played with her breasts, stroking, kneading, teasing her nipples, till she thought she would go mad with the need to touch him.

Being married must be like this. The freedom to touch one’s man. She’d never thought about that part of it. Exciting. Wonderful.

She leaned against his chest and reached up with her hands and stroked the back of his neck. She pulled his head down so she could kiss the side of his face. The stubble on his jaw rasped against her cheek. His musky cologne filled her senses. An intoxicating brew.

After this, she would not be the same person. All she had been taught in life to value would be gone. Another of her risky adventures. The last one.

She had never felt so alive or so scared.

Chapter Five

Her kiss, so tender on his cheek, cut through Garrick’s lust. It hinted at affection. That she desired him was obvious. Her arousal was as strong as his, he could smell it, taste it on her skin, feel it in her physical responses. But there was unselfishness in her hesitant gentleness. The women he had known demanded satiation, as he had. It had always been about taking pleasure.

Ellie seemed to want to give. The intensity of tenderness she evoked in him threatened his defences, threatened his control. Pleasure. He had nothing else to give.

‘Ellie, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘Turn around.’

She twisted in his arms, maintaining the contact of her lips with his face. Her breasts, nipples hard with desire, brushed against his arm, his ribs. Piercing longing ripped at his resolve. He bent his head and ravaged her mouth, plunged his tongue into the warm heat. He could taste her sweetness and smell her clean fresh fragrance, the hint of vanilla. She leaned against him, winding her arms around his neck, her fingers tracing a path through his hair.

He picked her up and laid her on the bed and her half-closed eyes watched him shyly. Her peeping gaze as he stripped off his shirt was more erotic than any bold stare. He wanted her so much his body trembled deep inside, as if every bone, muscle and sinew needed her for survival. He stopped undressing to kiss her, claimed her mouth, while her hands wandered his back in a light exploration that drove him wild with a need to make her forget her other man. Hands shaking, he rose and pulled off his boots and pantaloons. Her eyes widened as she took in his naked body. She looked away quickly, blushing. So she would play the maid to the end. God, how it inflamed him.

Golden hair spilling in abandon on to her shoulders and breasts, a small silver cross on a blue ribbon at her neck. He bent over her, kissing her cheek as chastely as a boy and she smiled. His chest ached sweetly as she draped her arms across his shoulders, encouraging him closer, but he held himself away, intent on his own exploration. His hands slid across her ribs, then around her waist, measuring the span. So fine, so tiny. He traced her navel with a fingertip, shaped the curve of her belly with his palm, until his hand reached her most private place. He combed through the crisp fair curls. She shivered and his shaft pulsed in response.

Garrick eased his hand between her elegant thighs, nudging them apart. A faint murmur of protest escaped her lips. The way she played the innocent was so unbelievably erotic. A delightfully sensual act designed to trap him in her web. His need surged rampant and urgent.

He stroked the velvet softness of her inner thighs, caressed her cleft and found it slippery with her moisture. For him. It felt like a gift from the gods. A treasure beyond compare. Her eyes drifted open on a moan. He smiled down into her passion-filled face, seeking the tiny nub of flesh, desiring her pleasure above all else. He circled his thumb. Her expression softened and her eyes glazed over, then she arched her back and cried out deep and guttural in her throat.

No virtuous games now, just her body responding to his touch in mindless ecstasy.

Her hands stroked his chest, his arms, his back. His skin tingled and his blood flared wherever her hands caressed. Sweet heavens, he needed to be inside her. He lowered his head and kissed her, tasting, plundering her soft welcoming mouth, sucking at her lips, drawing her tongue into his mouth as he kneed her legs wider. Slowly, he dipped the tip of his finger inside her wet, hot passage and found her ready. Hot blood roared through his veins.

Cradled by her body, her inner thighs a soft support for his hips, he lowered his mouth to her wonderful breasts. Tightly furled, her nipple rubbed against his lips as he kissed and licked the soft, tender flesh. Then he suckled. She moaned. His groin tightened. He lifted her hips, reached down and guided his rigid shaft to her entrance.

She stilled beneath him, her eyes wide in wonder and the pretence of fear. It drove him to the edge of madness and beyond. He eased into her warm wet flesh, rejoicing in her heat tight around him. So damned small. Almost too small. Deliciously resistant. He thought he would die of pleasure. He moved slowly. He knew how to prolong his partner’s enjoyment, but now she struggled, deliberately exciting him beyond control, fuelling his masculine need for ascendancy.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, gathered up her wrists and held them above her head, her breasts lifting. He kissed and sucked each nipple while she squirmed beneath him. So damned sexy. He thrust his hips forwards and she cried out in genuine pain.

He froze. ‘Bloody hell.’ He stared down at her. ‘Ellie?’ She shook her head, her face shocked. His arms and body shuddered with the effort of holding still.

‘Sweet Lord. Tell me this is not your first time.’ His body screamed a furious protest. His mind refused to grapple with the truth.

She nodded and swallowed, obviously scared to death. He groaned. What was done was done. He stayed still inside her, gasping for air, summoning control. If he left her now, hurting and afraid, she might never recover. He had to bring her more than pain, but she was rigid beneath him. No longer aroused, just afraid and tight and tense. She wasn’t pretending. He’d deflowered an innocent.

Hell and damnation. The realisation cut through him like terrible blades. He’d known. Deep down, he’d known. God damn it. The urge to strike out balled his fists.

He fought his rage, trembled with its force, beat it down until he could finally speak. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Trust me. I will try not to hurt you more. Sweetheart, kiss me.’

Her lovely mouth trembled. Tears welled in her eyes. Damn, they were joined together and he needed to gain her trust. He released her hands and, holding his torso completely still on his forearms, he lowered his mouth to hers. He placed tiny little kisses on each lip, barely more than a whisper. He could feel her warm breath on his throat, little gasps of terror.

His fault. He traced a path from her lips to her chin, across her throat. He nuzzled her neck, feeling her silky hair against his face, inhaling its light floral perfume. He ran his tongue around the edge of her ear and then softly probed the orifice. She shivered. She moved under him, he felt her arms encircle him. Felt her relax.

Sweat traced a cold path down the centre of his back as every muscle strained to hold his pounding need in check. He withdrew slowly, just a little, then slid forwards.

She lifted her hips, encouraging him now, welcoming him into her depths. Her courage humbled him. She was as brave as a warrior, and she was his.

‘Ellie,’ he groaned. ‘Hold still, for God’s sake.’

He heard her laugh low in her throat. ‘I’m all right,’ she whispered. She brought her legs around his waist. Unable to hold back, he thrust into her deeply, fiercely, and felt her rise to meet his every stroke.

She dug her fingers into his back. He welcomed the sting of pain and remembered to breathe.

Her heat engulfed him, making him forget all thoughts of restraint. He thrust faster, his body taking command. The storm built and swirled and raged and erupted in tearing, streaking light. Her back arched and she moaned sweetly and shuddered as she reached for heaven and found it. The edge of his abyss loomed close, hot and dark and welcoming. He withdrew from her body, spent his seed in the tangle of sheets and joined her on her downward spiral.

Panting, they lay together in heated bliss. He pulled her tight against his side, cradling her in the crook of his arm, stroking her until he was sure she slept.

Nom d’un nom. A virgin. If he had known, he would never have taken her. He shook his head in disbelief. Castlefield had not bedded her. Perhaps he scorned a mere servant, no matter that she had shown such love. He couldn’t help the feeling of triumph, even as he regretted her loss.

She’d given him, of all men, a treasure beyond price. He wanted to curl his body around her, shelter her from the world. The emotion tugged at a painful chord in the region of his heart. An emotion he couldn’t afford.

He gazed down at her beautiful face, so young, so fragile in sleep. He brushed her silky hair away from her forehead and kissed each eyelid, with its sweep of fair lashes against fragile skin. Satisfied, he held her safe, then drifted off to sleep.

Shadows filled the room when Garrick opened his eyes. He stretched, feeling the wonderful pull of muscle from head to toe. None of the familiar feeling of panic of something urgent he needed to remember. Had he ever awoken feeling so utterly relaxed?

Ellie stirred. He rolled on his side, kissed her cheek, then her mouth, savoured the honeyed taste of his woman. ‘Awake already, chérie?’ he whispered. The wicked part of his body responded to the thought of her awake. Not a good idea, not when she’d be sore. And he was expected at the Court. He hung over the side of the bed and retrieved his watch, squinting at it in the fading light. Almost seven. ‘I must hurry, if I want to be in time for dinner.’

Beside him, her body tensed.

He turned to face her, propped up on an elbow. ‘What is it, sweet?’

Her gaze slid away. ‘Nothing.’

In his experience, when a woman said nothing in that cool tone of voice it meant trouble. In the past he’d simply walked away, afraid to risk the heat of his anger. He didn’t want to walk away from Ellie.

He tipped her chin with his hand and kissed her lips. They were as cold as ice and unresponsive. ‘I’m expected. Surely you understand?’

Her lashes hid her eyes. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Call me Garrick. Ellie, I can’t live here. What would your neighbours say? Besides, I have duties at Beauworth.’ He’d promised his uncle and he would not go back on his word ‘I will visit you every day.’ He smiled. ‘You won’t be lonely, I promise.’ He took her lips, kissed her long and hard, binding her to him, promising more. He felt the scorching heat spiralling around them, drawing them together, melting her against him.

For a moment, he surrendered to its power. More than anything, he wanted to stay, but he never went back on his word. He owed it to Beauworth and Le Clere to go home.

A week had passed. One of the most blissful Garrick had ever known. And he wanted Ellie to be happy, too. He’d thought of the perfect thing. So now with her at his side in the gig, he felt as nervous as a lad facing his first day at school. Ridiculous. And yet he hadn’t felt this excited in years. Even the unpredictable weather had cooperated with a sunny summer day.

They turned on to the track winding to the barn where he’d been held captive. ‘Where are we going?’ The nervousness in her voice indicated she’d guessed their destination.

He kept his voice gruff. ‘You’ll see.’

Her body stiffened as if she expected some sort of trick. Perhaps he shouldn’t tease, but he couldn’t resist. She’d love his surprise. They turned through the gate. He tried to hold back his smile as her mouth dropped open at the sight of the two horses tied to the rail outside the barn.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Mist.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘You remembered.’

‘That you stabled him at Brown’s farm? Yes.’ He brought the horse to a halt and she leapt down without waiting for help. Skirts ankle high, she ran to the little white gelding, reaching out to him, petting his neck, murmuring soft words into his ear.

A huge warmth filled his chest, marred by a twinge of something small and mean. Jealousy for the damned horse? ’Struth. He must be losing his mind if he envied a bloody gelding.

Forcing a smile, he jumped down and strode to join her at the fence. ‘Dan collected him this morning.’

‘I never imagined you would do something like this.’ Her laughter bubbled like champagne, even as her words cut through his joy and when she flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, he forgave her careless dismissal and basked in her happiness. She could not have been more pleased than if he had brought her diamonds.

‘Oh, I wish I had known, I would have worn my riding habit.’

‘I can do better.’ Garrick didn’t try to hold back his smirk. He took her hand and led her into the barn. There, in a corner, was a suit of boy’s clothes very much like those she had worn when they had fenced, and beside the pile, her sword leaning up against the wall.

She hugged him with abandon. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Well, Miss Brown, first we ride, then we practise. I will teach you my sword trick, if you wish.’

Her face shone in the dim cool light. ‘I do wish. Leave me, so I can change.’

Imperious and charmingly modest. A strange delightful mixture for a creature of passion and adventure. Laughing, he tipped up her face with his knuckle. ‘Do you need my help?’

‘I’m used to doing for myself.’

Of course she was. Women of her ilk did not have maids to help them dress. Yet he would have liked to help her out of her clothes. Heat rushed to his groin. He could insist, of course. It was his right. But this was her day, and so he left and strode out into the sunshine where he paced in front of the barn, imagining her slipping out of her gown and into her other guise with increasingly lascivious thoughts.

When she emerged, her stride and the way she held herself reminded him what a great little actress she was, a woman who changed her persona with her clothes. Now, she was more boy than girl, swaggering in her form-hugging breeches with the sword belted at her waist and the cocked hat pulled down over her hair. The costume left nothing of her body to the imagination and the sight of luscious hips and thighs thickened his blood.

If he hadn’t known how much she was looking forward to going for a ride, he might have pulled her down on to the grass where they’d kissed days before and teased her right out of her breeches. Instead, breathing hard, concentrating on the control he’d learned as a boy, he held his desire in check, merely nodding when she glanced from the horse to him.

In a flash, she mounted, a boy-like leap into the saddle, and urged the little white gelding into a gallop. Ah, but he would not let her get too far. He swung up on to Bess. The mare needed no urging to catch the fleeing pair. And when he came up on her, they rode side by side across the field. Not the sedate trot of an afternoon in Hyde Park, but a wild canter.

‘A race,’ she called out.

He grinned and dug in his heels. Bess easily outstripped the smaller gelding.

He looked back to gloat. Damn her. She’d cut off at right angles. Headed straight for the field’s low stone wall. His heart rose in his throat. She’d break her neck if she fell at that speed. He wheeled Bess around and followed. He roared a warning. The gelding took the wall with a playful little kick of rear hooves, clearing the coping with inches to spare.

Even as his heart swelled in admiration, Garrick wanted to take his crop to her backside. He wanted to shake her. Make her promise never to risk her life in that fashion again. He had to catch her first.

Never had he seen a woman ride so hard, better than many men he knew. Admiration outstripped anger as he watched the perfect harmony between horse and rider. She rode like a madwoman, but she knew her horse and by the time they were heading back to the barn, he’d forgiven her madcap dash. He laughed out loud when she raised a brow in question from beneath her cocked hat.

As they walked the horses cool, a feeling of contentment washed through him. It was as if some great weight had gone from his shoulders, or some dark shadow had been erased from his soul. She made him feel…happy. A gift beyond price.

A happiness he didn’t deserve, but would enjoy as long as it lasted.

‘I’m starving,’ he said.

‘Me, too.’

‘Lucky I thought to bring lunch.’ He retrieved the hamper he’d left in the barn’s cool interior and spread out a red-and-green plaid blanket on the grass over-looking the pond. She laid out the feast, small meat pasties in a feather-light crust, bread, cheese and fine red wine. Neither said much while they ate. It was good to see a woman eat with such gusto, unlike the ladies of his acquaintance in London, who picked at food as if it might be poison.

Crickets chirped a merry tune in the grass. A dove on the barn roof cooed softly. Appetite sated, Garrick stretched out, leaning on one elbow so he could watch her face. She sighed and, resting against his thigh, sipped her wine. ‘Thank you for a most wonderful surprise,’ she murmured.

The pleasure in her voice filled his heart with unaccustomed warmth. It burned like frozen fingers brought back to life. ‘I’m glad it pleased you. Tell me, how on earth did you learn to ride and fight with a sword like a boy?’

She hesitated.

Would she lie? The warmth dwindled, but he tried to hold it fast. After all, he had his own dark secrets.

‘I told you I was brought up with the Castlefield children,’ she said. ‘We spent a year or two in India. While travelling in some parts it was safer to dress the girls as boys. I took fencing and riding lessons with William…I mean, Lord Castlefield. I loved it. Sometimes I wished I’d been born a boy.’

William. Her familiarity with the man sent the heat of anger flooding to his brain even as he analysed her slight hesitations and carefully chosen words. No doubt about it. She was lying.

He kept his expression cool, detached. ‘I envy you. I have never been outside England. The war with France made the Grand Tour impossible.’ Not to mention his uncle’s protectiveness.

She set down her half-full glass and stared at the rolling vista. ‘It was the same for the oldest son, the heir. He hoped to go abroad once the war was over. He was killed in a carriage accident not long ago. Now William must return and take up the duties as heir. In a way, I’m glad.’ Her voice caught. ‘I hated thinking of him in danger.’

Garrick couldn’t see her face, but he heard the note of deep longing in her voice. Clearly no matter what he did, she would prefer this man. Jealousy surged, twisted in his gut, knotted with a cold, hard lump of anger and bitterness. The thought of this other man wounded him in a way he hadn’t expected, a way he’d never before experienced. He forced himself not to care. ‘Is it your wish to go to him when he returns?’ The hard edge in his voice told him he’d failed.

‘Oh, no.’ She sounded sincere, almost appalled.

More acting? And why would he care? His plans for the future didn’t involve a woman. He eased away from her, rose to his feet and began packing away the remains of the picnic.

‘One of your servants came to Castlefield, once,’ she said, passing him her wineglass. ‘He’d been in the same regiment as the old lord, and your father, I believe. A man named Piggot.’

His stomach lurched. The ground beneath his feet seemed to shift at the sound of a name he’d not heard in years. He stood stock-still. ‘Piggot?’

‘I can remember the Earl being quite upset after his visit, but he did not say why.’ She rose to her feet and dusted off her breeches, her small hands patting the round curve of her derrière.

A tremor, so deep it did not disturb the surface of his flesh, quaked in his bones. Would Piggot have revealed the events surrounding his mother’s death to Castle-field? Did the information that could destroy him lie in Castlefield’s hands, awaiting imminent discovery? How Ellie would revile him if she learned the truth. And yet, in some dark corner of his soul lay a measure of relief at the thought of laying down a burden too heavy to bear.

Unseeing, he stared at the blanket in his hands.

‘On guard.’

A sword point flickered in his face. He recoiled. ‘What the deuce?’

She laughed, her eyes sparkling. She twirled her blade, then raised it in salute. ‘You promised me a lesson.’

Sweat trickled off his brow and ran cold down his cheek. He let go a long breath and smiled. ‘So I did.’ He collected his weapon from the gig and took off his coat.

He bowed, then saluted. ‘On guard.’

She took up her stance, lithe and alert. As their blades hissed together, he recalled her amazing skill. She’d been taught by a master. A worthy opponent, indeed, though she did not have the strength of wrist or the reach to best him. He demonstrated his technique of twisting a blade free of his opponent’s hand. She grasped the theory quickly, but had trouble putting it into practice.

‘It will work for you with a weaker opponent,’ he said.

Clearly exhausted, the tip of her sword resting on the grass, she nodded and wiped her face on her shirtsleeve with a laugh. ‘Enough, my lord. I can barely lift my arm.’

Her face was flushed, beads of sweat shone on her brow and her shirt was undone past what was decent. Delicious. Tantalising. His body quickened.

‘Aye. It is time you changed, before my servant comes to retrieve the picnic, and he recognises you as the highwayman I kissed.’ He led her into the barn.

Ellie tugged on his hand. ‘Why did you kiss me that night? There was no legend, was there?’

He smiled at her frown. ‘Because, like a fool I’d left my pistol in the coach.’ And lucky it was he had. God, even now she might be dead.

‘I was a fool to let you get so close. I’d not do so again.’

‘There will not be a next time.’ Cold fear struck his heart. He pressed her against him, the urge to keep her safe overwhelming. ‘Will there?’

Against his arm, her spine stiffened. Her grey eyes cooled as she hid her thoughts. ‘No. There is no reason for it any longer.’

He kissed her hard, trying to break through the barrier she’d put up. It worked. She melted against him and his blood grew thick and heavy with need.

‘How do you do that?’ His voice was low and husky with desire.

A laugh caught in her throat. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’

He hoisted her into his arms, while she laughed and kicked. He put her down on the blanket amongst the straw, a lovely wild creature as comfortable in a barn as she was on a feather bed. An enigma. Perhaps that was the root of her attraction. She was unlike any other woman he’d known.

What was it about her that drove him to distraction? Perhaps not knowing how much of her was real and how much playacting held him enthralled. She’d been a virgin when she came to his bed, but there was nothing innocent about Lady Moonlight. Would he ever know the real woman behind the mask?

And if he did, would she disappoint? Was it better not to know?

She reached up and cupped his jaw in her small hand, dragging his face down to her lips with a saucy smile. Today, he had Lady Moonlight. God help him, he’d take whatever she felt free to give.

He wrestled with the buttons of her shirt while her lips were fastened to his, only breaking away to pull it over her head. When she did the same for him, he felt humbled. Honoured. He lay beside her, kissing her lips, her throat, the rise of her breast. Her nipples leapt to life under his tongue. Passion and adventure all rolled up in one unique woman.

While he nuzzled into her breasts to the sound of her delighted giggles, he unfastened her breeches, easing them over the curve of her hips. He caressed the soft skin of her buttocks and pressed her hard against his arousal.

She pushed him away. She laughed at his disappointment and, leaning forwards, nipped his shoulder with her teeth.

‘Ouch!’

She slid slowly to her knees, her hands trailing down his chest and then his belly until they reached the waistband of his breeches. The white skin of her back melded into the roundness of her plump firm buttocks at its base. Groaning, he reached down and unpinned her silky golden hair so it flowed softly around her as she unbuttoned him and his shaft sprang free, rampant and ready. She kissed him, a quick shy brush of silky soft lips.

Mon Dieu, it felt good. A breath of pure pleasure hissed between his teeth. But he wanted more. He wanted to feel her soft curves against him. He lifted her to him and kissed her mouth. He plunged his tongue deep into her and felt her bold response.

‘I need to be out of these clothes,’ he whispered.

She cast him a shy smile of encouragement. He sat up and quickly stripped off his boots and breeches and turned to lay beside her. She gazed deeply into his eyes, seeking…what? Assurance. The passion in her smoky gaze drove blood from his brain to his groin.

He gathered her close, oblivious to everything except her warmth, her scent, the hint of vanilla. An honest, earthy scent. The sounds of desire from her throat while their mouths joined drove him wild with wanting. His fingers dipped into her moist, hot centre and he groaned. This was where he belonged. Somehow, he would make her forget her past.

He nudged his knee between her thighs and she, generous and yielding, let them fall open. He entered her and they became as one. He drove into her, thrusting again and again. Her gasps of excitement, the breath warm in his ear, her nails sharp points of wicked pain on his back and buttocks, drove him to new heights of desire.

The scent of her arousal filled his nostrils. Her cries, increasingly demanding, filled his ears.

So close. His own release threatened, demanded, tortured, tightened his groin until he thought he would explode. He clamped his jaw. Strained to bring her with him. Fought for control.

He shifted. Stroked her tight insides with his body, feeling the flutter and pull of her inner muscles goading him on. He reached between them, found the source of her pleasure, the swollen bud of her desire, and circled and rubbed, hard, fast.

‘Oh God, Ellie, now.’

Her body clenched around his shaft, hot spasms against the sensitive head. He was going to die of pleasure. Not without her. Not alone.

Then she shattered. Crest after crest of heat and tight, clenching, muscles. In a panic, he withdrew, spilling his essence on her belly as he followed her into the surf. He collapsed on his side, grabbing his shirt to clean her skin. The scent of sweet-smelling straw and lovemaking in his nostrils, a harmony of breathing and slowing hearts, a paradise on earth. Blissful, sated, sweat cooling on exposed flesh, he gazed up into the ancient beams. If he stayed in England with her at his side, perhaps his inner demons could be vanquished.

With a smile, she nestled deeper in the crook of his arm, her straw-coloured hair trailing over her breasts like a silken veil. He ran a fingertip across her arm where it lay across her stomach, her hand resting on his hip. A beautiful, extraordinary woman.

His eyes drifted closed. When he came to and looked at her next she had turned on her back. His first thought was to kiss her awake and make love to her again. But tears were sliding from under her long, golden lashes and running down her face.

He reached out and captured a tear on his thumb and brought it to his lips. He tasted salt. What made her cry in her sleep? His stomach roiled as he forced his mind to recognise what his heart would not. She wasn’t happy.

It was like a knife twisting in his chest, this sense of impending loss.

Yet perhaps it was as well. What if this thing inside him caused her harm? He’d never forgive himself.

Would he harm a woman he only wanted to protect? The legends spoke of blind rage. He was almost sure he’d experienced it first-hand three times now, the sensation of control and memory slipping away. His gut churned.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him with a slight frown, as if she was trying to recall where she was, then her eyes cleared and she smiled.

‘Why are you crying?’ His voice sounded tight and hard.

‘I didn’t know I was.’ Her laugh shook. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘A bad dream? I don’t recall.’

A wave of guilt washed over him. He should have given her the money she needed and made her leave, instead of killing any dreams she must have of her noble patron.

He only wanted to give her happiness. In his selfishness, he had tried to win her heart, to make her want to stay, but if she cried for Castlefield after a day as perfect as this one, she’d never been his. Sadness rose up inside him, painful and dark.

He had spent years learning to control his deeper emotions, building a wall to keep out anything that might disturb his calm as a matter of survival. She had pierced that wall and he must make it whole again. He would tell her he was tired of her, send her away.

But not yet. Not today.

‘Come, Dan will return soon. Let me help you dress.’

On the drive back to the village, Ellie rested her head on his shoulder, her body rocking against him with the horses’ steady rhythm. Unconsciously he pulled her closer and she snuggled into him, nuzzling his neck. His heart felt tattered, torn to shreds, and he welcomed the pain.

They pulled up outside her front door. ‘Goodnight, Ellie,’ he whispered into her hair. He tipped her chin and brushed her lips with his thumb, aching for more.

‘Goodnight, Garrick. Thank you for a wonderful day,’ she murmured.

Tomorrow, he’d gather the strength of will to set her free. After all, she’d never been his to keep and a man with a stain on his soul didn’t deserve happiness.

Chapter Six

Eleanor closed the door the moment the gig drove away. She busied herself preparing supper, trying not to think about the path she’d chosen and what it meant for her future.

He’d given her a beautiful day in idyllic surroundings and it hadn’t been too hard to imagine herself spending the rest of her life with him. He was thoughtful, charming and fun. Most of all, when he made love to her, she forgot his reputation as a rake, forgot the duty she owed to her family, forgot she was ruined. It wouldn’t matter how good he was to her, he could never marry her now.

Nor could anyone else.

And until their bargain was over, she must not let him steal her heart.

That foolish organ gave a funny little skip, a happy little hop in her chest. Too late, apparently.

She jabbed the fork into a slice of bread. What a fool. Each time she thought about bidding him goodbye, she cried. If she didn’t take care she’d turn into a permanent watering pot. She’d always despised lachrymose females who complained about their lot in life. She’d made her bed and she’d lie on it, cheerfully, and think about the future when it arrived.

If she had a future. Drat it, there she went again.

She stared at the toast and jam she’d put on the plate, but there was no room in her stomach for food. Tea. She needed a nice cup of tea. In bed. And a book. She put the kettle on and changed into her nightdress and robe.

Her front door creaked open. Her spirits soared. Garrick had returned. She ran to greet him.

It wasn’t Garrick outlined in the doorway, but a stranger. Large and threatening, with a wind-reddened face and heavy black brows above a red-veined, bulbous nose, he barged over the threshold. Oh, God. She must have forgotten to throw the bolt.

She backed away, her mouth dry and her heart beating loudly. While not tall, he was heavyset and could overpower her in an instant. Her stomach lurched as small black eyes ran down her body, eyebrows lifting. The worst thing about him was his grin, loose wet lips drawing back over broken yellow teeth beneath a greasy black moustache.

‘Get out.’ Her voice shook. She clasped her hands together, seeking strength. ‘You have no right to be in here.’

‘Now, now, my lady, don’t get excited, I’ve come with a message from his lordship.’

‘The Marquess of Beauworth?’

‘The very same.’

Something jarred about his words. She gasped. He had called her my lady. Garrick knew? Her rapidly beating heart clogged her throat. She swallowed. ‘Get out.’

He made no move.

She glanced around for a weapon. If only she had not left her sword at the barn.

The man closed the door with his heel, following step by step as she backed away. She daren’t take her gaze from his face in case he attacked.

A weapon. She needed something heavy. She sidled into the bedroom, working her way to the brass candlestick on the night table. Breathing steadily, clutching fast to her courage, she backed around the bed. The table nudged her back. Her fingers fumbled behind her and found cool metal.

She held up her other hand in a warning. ‘No closer.’

He reached into his pocket. He must have a pistol or a knife. She had to act.

She grasped the candlestick firmly, hefting it in her hand where he could see it. ‘Stay back or I will put a dint in your face so large your mother will never recognise you.’

His hand emerged with a small brown bottle. He laughed, an evil, sneering sound. ‘Them’s fighting words, my lady.’ The sound of the front door opening sent a chill down her spine.

‘Where the hell are you?’ a male voice called.

More of them. Bile rose in her throat.

‘In here, Sarg.’

She might be able to deal with one, but two? Dear God, what did they want? Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. ‘There is money in the chest under the bed,’ she croaked.

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ bulbous nose said. ‘Later.’

The chill down her back turned to ice. She launched the candlestick at his head.

He knocked it aside with his arm. ‘Ouch,’ he bellowed. ‘You little bitch!’

He lunged at her. She ducked under his arm. He caught a handful of her hair. Pain shot through her scalp. Eyes blurring, she twisted in his grip. Lashed at his groin with her bare foot and hit his thigh. She stumbled. He yanked her back by her hair. More pain. Her eyes streamed. She flailed at his face with her nails.

Arms grabbed her from behind, around her throat and waist. A belt buckle jammed into her back. The second man. Panic chilled her to the bone.

‘I told you to wait.’ His voice in her ear was low and angry. ‘Where’s the bottle, Caleb?’

‘’Ere, Sarg.’

A grinning Caleb held the small brown bottle to her lips. She recognised the smell. Laudanum. She clamped her mouth shut. The man behind pinched her nostrils. Hard. Painfully hard, while Caleb pressed the bottle against her lips. The fingers around her throat tightened. Arms crushed her ribs. Her lungs burned. Her head swam. Air. She needed air.

One quick breath. Turning her face, she opened her mouth. A bitter-tasting liquid flooded in. She swallowed. Managed a breath.

‘More,’ Sarg said.

More liquid. She struggled blindly. Her movements became weaker. Dizzy, she felt her limbs loosen. The triumphant leer of the man Caleb faded.

The cottage had an air of desolation. An emptiness. Garrick sensed it the moment he entered and still he called out, ‘Ellie?’ Silence.

He placed her sword and scabbard gently on the pine table. He’d thought she might want to keep it. He wandered into the bedroom, just to be sure. The bed was stripped, the clothes’ press empty. She’d taken everything.

A hollow, sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach. Knowing how unhappy she was, he’d planned to send her home, rehearsed what he would say over and over, all the while hoping she might want to stay.

It was better this way. She’d gone of her own accord. Less painful. Then why did his chest ache? A small scrap of white poked out from under the bed and he picked it up. A minute square of lawn edged in fine lace. He pressed it to his nose. It smelled clean, fresh with traces of vanilla. Ellie. It was the only thing left. No note. Nothing to show she had ever lived here. He stuffed the handkerchief into his coat pocket and went back to the kitchen.

Barely conscious of his actions, he pulled a bottle of brandy and a tumbler from the dresser and set them on the table. He fought his bitter disappointment. Why not say goodbye? Had she found him so lacking?

He pulled out the plain ladder-back chair, turned its back against the scrubbed table and sat astride. Chin resting on his sleeve, he glared at the honey-coloured table top, as if it could provide an answer. Had she somehow seen the evil in him? She didn’t lack for courage, but it was enough to send anyone running off into the night.

Bloody hell. Why couldn’t he accept she loved Castlefield instead of trying to place the blame elsewhere? An urgent need to drink one glass after another and dull the pain tightened his gut. He reached for the bottle, astonished at the way his hand shook as he splashed liquid oblivion into the glass and on to the table. The pungent aroma stung the back of his throat, brought tears to his eyes. Oh, yes. Fool yourself about this, too. He smiled wryly. Tomorrow reality would stare him in the face, the way it did every day. He ought to be glad she’d gone, glad she’d never look at him in horror.

He buried his head in the crook of his arm. Rage, despair, roiling emotions he couldn’t name, made his skin feel too tight, as if he might burst like an over-filled water-skin. With a muffled roar, he rose and lobbed the glass into the fireplace. It shattered with the sound of hail on a tile roof. Then silence. Brandy fumes hung in the air like the stink of an inn on a Saturday night.

What the hell good had that done, except waste perfectly good brandy? He picked up the bottle to put it away. The front door slammed back against the wall. Ellie?

Garrick turned, his heart beating hopefully against his ribs. Without warning, a blond, red-coated soldier lurched across the room and grabbed at his throat. Choking, he tore at the man’s fingers.

‘Where is she, you goddamned thrice-misbegotten whoreson?’ the man yelled.

Even as his vision blackened around the edges, Garrick knew this man. ‘Hadley?’ His enemy.

A red wash coated his vision, rage running like liquid fire through his veins. He embraced it. Used its strength. He brought his arms up and around. Broke the other man’s hold, shoved him backwards and raised his fists, longing to beat the furious face to a pulp.

‘Not so fast, my lord.’ The muzzle of a rifle pressed coldly against the back of Garrick’s neck.

With his back to the door, Garrick had not seen the man enter, but he recognised the deep rumbling voice. He released his breath in a long, shuddering sigh, gaining control, clearing the red mists from his sight, tamping down the killing rage. ‘Well, if it isn’t Ben.’

‘No, my lord. Martin Brown, at your service. Put up your weapons.’

Martin Brown, the relative she’d spoken of, was also Ben the highwayman? Merde. How many more lies had she told him?

Garrick lowered his fists.

Martin Brown withdrew his rifle and held it ready across his chest.

Hadley fixed his hard grey gaze on Garrick and repeated his question. ‘Where is she?’

What the hell was going on? What did this man have to do with Ellie? No. This must be about some other woman. He racked his brain for possible contenders, women he’d forgotten, while he kept his face a blank slate. ‘What are you doing here?’

Anger boiled up again, at Ellie, at himself, at this man from his past. He curled his lip and glanced down at the man’s twisted right leg. ‘Come for another beating, Hadley?’ He shouldn’t have said that. Hell, he’d always denied being Hadley’s night-time attacker.

The other man reddened. ‘Castlefield now.’

Garrick reeled. The breath left his body as if he’d been struck in the kidneys. This was Castlefield? ‘But—’

‘Haven’t you done enough, you bastard? Did you have to take your revenge out on my sister?’

For a long moment Garrick’s mind stuck on the word revenge, the old issue between them, the fight over a woman and the accusations hanging over him at school. The reason for Castlefield’s halting gait. The second occasion he’d lost control and couldn’t remember.

Finally, the word ‘sister’ forced its way to the surface. The floor beneath his feet seemed to tilt. ‘Ellie is your sister?’

‘Lady Eleanor Hadley, to you. My twin.’

His twin sister? He could only stare in stunned silence. Finally he found a shred of voice. ‘She left.’ His mind scrambled to make sense of what his ears were hearing. ‘She must have gone home.’

Martin Brown shook his head. ‘The bailiffs are gone, but no sign of her ladyship.’

A sense of dread filled his stomach. ‘Then she went to her sister.’ He refused to think about where else she might have gone.

‘Damn you, Beauworth!’ Castlefield choked out. ‘If I find that one hair of her head has been harmed, I shall hold you fully responsible.’ He drew his sword.

‘Put up, my lord,’ Martin Brown said sternly, his ruddy face grim. This time his rifle was pointed at the Earl. ‘This was all her own doing. I did my best to stop her and when I could not, I did my best to protect her.’ He nodded at Garrick. ‘He became involved when we held up his coach and he followed us. She said she would set him free and go to Scotland.’ He flushed. ‘I had a feeling there was more to it. That was why I waited for your ship in Portsmouth. But if she’s gone, she’s gone to your aunt, or to her friend in Scotland. We should look for her there.’

Oh God, Ellie. What were you doing? He stared at her enraged brother. No wonder she’d longed for him to come home. The bastard had left her to face everything alone. Well, now he’d know the truth, because he wasn’t fit to take care of her.

Garrick crossed his arms across his chest and stared down his nose at the other man. ‘You were right to worry, Martin. She became my mistress to retrieve the mortgage and pay his debts.’ He curled his lip as the other man squirmed. ‘Not once did she tell me the truth.’

Horror etched on his features, Castlefield limped to the sofa and collapsed. He covered his face with his hands. ‘Eleanor,’ he moaned. ‘Why?’

A wave of remorse washed away Garrick’s anger. ‘I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but you have only yourself to blame.’

Martin Brown assisted his young master to rise. ‘Come, my lord, we have to find her and bring her home.’

Castlefield glared at Garrick. ‘You despicable cur, taking advantage of a woman. My sister is worth two of you.’

What had he done? She’d been trying to save her brother, and Garrick had taken full advantage of the circumstances. Dear God. He’d ruined a noblewoman, taken her virtue. Were there no depths to which he would not sink? If only she’d told him who she was. Let him help her. Nom d’un nom. She’d lied rather than give him the chance to help because she didn’t trust him.

He had to make it right. Offer her his name. It was all he could do. What he wanted to do. He felt a surge of hope. ‘I will marry her, of course.’ His voice sounded thick and hoarse.

In the doorway, Castlefield swung back around, granite eyes blazing, his pale skin flushed. ‘Do you think I’d let her marry a cur like you?’

Cringing inside, Garrick somehow managed to keep his voice calm. ‘It will be up to Ellie to decide.’

‘Will it?’ Castlefield’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘When I tell her what you did to me, you know how she will answer. Eleanor will do my bidding in this. Say one thing to a soul about my sister and I swear I will kill you. Come near my family again and you will die.’

The bitterness in his voice rent Garrick’s sympathy to shreds. ‘Next time you find yourself in debt, don’t leave your sister to rescue you.’

‘Damn you to hell, Beauworth!’ Castlefield shouted, following Martin Brown out of the door and slamming it shut.

Hell looked inviting. Garrick sank on to the sofa. What a bloody mess. How could he not have seen what she was? Hell! He’d known she had secrets, but how could he have guessed she was a noblewoman? Liar. The signs had all been there—her conversation, her bearing, even her modesty and innocence. The selfish bastard in him hadn’t wanted to see. He’d wanted the rogue, the woman in the mask, the woman he could not hurt.

He scrubbed his palm over his chin. She had no choice but to take his name. Castlefield would come to his senses, once he got over his anger. His heart lifted. In a way, it wasn’t so bad.

‘She’s waking.’ Shuffling footsteps crossed the room.

Eleanor turned her head towards the coarse female voice. Light sliced pain through her temples and she tried to swallow what felt like sand in her throat. The room spun like a child’s top. Oh God, she was going to be sick. A basin appeared before her as if by magic. She vomited. Again and again.

Exhausted, she lay back, eyes shut. What was wrong with her? She’d never felt so ill in her life. Then she remembered. They’d dosed her with laudanum. After a few moments, she opened her eyes again and peered through a watery blur at four bare stone walls, a grimy window and flagstone floor. Where was she?

She struggled to rise. A dumpy old crone in black shoved her back against the pillow.

‘Here, lovey,’ the woman said. ‘Drink. It’ll ’ave you right as rain, it will.’

Feeling a glass against her lips, she gulped at the liquid. Bitter. Disgusting. Oh, no, more laudanum. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

‘Rest, missie.’

‘How long will she sleep?’ A man’s voice, low and harsh from across the room. Eleanor tried to raise her head to see. Too heavy. Too tired.

‘A few hours.’

‘Good. Keep the door locked. Caleb will keep watch.’

Caleb. A rush of fear engulfed her as she remembered the man’s ugly face, the last person she’d seen before darkness sucked her down.

The next time she opened her eyes, she was alone. She felt better, stronger. The musty-smelling room remained steady. A chamber with crumbling plaster, and empty except for the cot on which she lay. A spyhole pierced the blackened wood door. Had they watched her sleep? She shivered. A blanket, rough to the touch, covered her nightgown and robe. Her skin crawled at the thought of those men with their hands on her in such flimsy attire.

Nausea rose in her throat. If she was sick, they would hear her. She swallowed.

‘Is she awake?’ Caleb’s voice. Outside the door. A voice of nightmares. A voice she’d heard in vague dreams of being carried and shoved into a vehicle. Shuddering, she closed her eyes and lay still. She wasn’t ready to face them. Not yet. Not until she felt stronger.

‘Nah,’ the woman replied, obviously peering through the hole in the door.

‘Sarg will be back soon.’

‘Aye. I’ll make tea and wake her. He’ll want her ready.’

Ready for what? There were noises, crockery rattling and footsteps. Eleanor imagined the woman moving around in the other room. The scraping of a chair being pushed back and heavier footfalls made her tense. Careful not to move, Eleanor opened her eyes a fraction.

‘She’s awake,’ Caleb said. ‘I know it.’

‘Get away from there, you big lummox. You leave her to me, just like Sarg said. Get yourself back on guard or he’ll have your guts for garters.’

‘I’ve got a score to settle with the bitch for my arm,’ Caleb growled. He clumped away and a door closed with a bang.

Barely clothed and a prisoner at their mercy. Her body trembled. Her heart raced. She couldn’t breathe. They were going to kill her. She was going to die here in this horrid little hovel.

Ellie, calm down. Father’s voice stilled her panic. Remember what he used to say? The reason many soldiers died was because they froze in fear and stopped thinking. Pull yourself together and you will be all right.

She hauled in a deep breath. Then another. Her heartbeat slowed. Her breathing evened out. She forced herself to listen to the sounds from the other room and was sitting up when the key turned in the lock and the woman entered with a tray.

‘Where am I?’ Eleanor said, looking down her nose at her female jailor. ‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’

The woman set the tray on end of the bed and pulled her grey woollen shawl tight around her hunched shoulders. She looked like any woman you might see on the street in a village—black gown, grey hair scraped back, wisps escaping around her lined suntanned face. ‘You’ll get your answers soon enough, my lady. Now, drink your tea and eat something. You’ll feel better.’

More drugs? Eleanor eyed the tray askance. Yet her stomach felt uncomfortably hollow. How long since she had eaten? ‘What is the time?’

‘Getting on for noon. You slept all day yesterday.’

She’d lost a whole day? Garrick would be worried. But how would he find her? ‘You can’t keep me here. The Marquess of Beauworth expects to find me at home.’

‘Does he now?’ The woman’s smile was grim, but she didn’t seem perturbed. ‘Eat. Or go hungry.’ She marched out and locked the door behind her.

Eleanor glanced at the tray. She needed strength for whatever they had in store for her, but not more laudanum. She carefully smelled the bread and the tea. Nothing obvious. Nor did she taste anything odd. She ate and drank her fill.

Feeling stronger, she strolled around her prison. The floor was cold and gritty under her bare feet, the air smelled of mould. Daylight struggled though a small window hung with dusty cobwebs high above her head. To see out, she would need to pull the cot beneath it and battle the spiders. She eyed the corners of the room. No doubt the horrid beasts lurked there, too. She shuddered and swallowed the urge to beg.

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