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.