Excerpt of Romancing the Thief by Pam Roller

England, 1682

Stephen Fletcher hunched forward in the saddle against the late afternoon storm. Rain stung his eyes and stole down his neck in cold rivulets. He rubbed an impatient hand over his face and ignored the discomfort.

Lord Rothwell’s urgent injunction, shouted at Stephen’s back as he rode away from his friend’s London townhouse, took on a rhythmic cadence to the horse’s hooves galloping down the muddied, wooded road.

Secure the map. Kill the thief.

Roth’s chagrin over the crucial map’s disappearance from his desk paled in comparison to the fury of King Charles II if it fell into the wrong hands. Rothwell’s butler could give little description but that the tall, brown-haired man must have had the quickest hands in England.

Despite the high stakes, slapping rain and unfamiliar horse beneath him, Stephen considered this a routine chase. The thief didn’t have much of a lead, and five other agents had been sent out in different directions to hunt him down. If Stephen found him, he was instructed to retrieve the map, force information from the man, and kill him.

Routine.

If it weren’t Roth himself who had been robbed, Stephen might have remained at cards. Not only was he attempting to get information from two men believed to be traitors, he’d also just gone for the sixth trick playing Renegado, about to win a fivefold payout of twenty pounds each. Two ladies, both of whom had shrugged off his attentions the day before, now elbowed each other, trying to catch his eye. When the butler scurried into the room bellowing about a theft, Stephen’s first thought was to help Rothwell and his second that finding the thief had better be worth dashing away from the card table.

With five hundred pounds and a fast royal mare offered for the retrieval of the map, he figured it was worth it. In spite of his connections, he needed only a little more than that to purchase the estate of his dreams and raise thoroughbred horses.

Lightning blazed the sky and thunder took no time in following. The damnable storm was right on top of him. The frantic screaming of horses alerted him only an instant before they rushed from the woods directly in front of him. His horse shied and nearly threw him from the slippery saddle. Grunting a surprised oath, he tightened his thighs and jerked the reins left in time to dodge the coach shaft that whipped from the trees behind the harnessed horses. The animals continued across the road into the trees but within seconds became tangled by their twisted harness. They groaned and squealed in terror, foaming at the mouth.

He couldn’t leave them there. They’d hurt themselves through their struggling. He reined in, dropped to his feet and began a slow but steady approach, speaking soothingly to the wild-eyed animals over the roar of rain and thunder. Beyond calming, they tossed their heads and wrenched their bodies in efforts to escape. He drew his knife and swiftly cut the harness behind them. The horses bolted down the road in crazed panic. Soon enough they would tire, and the smell of hay would lead them to a barn somewhere.

Across the road and within the woods lay the remains of the coach on its side. Nearby a man lay sprawled on the ground, his head bent at an odd angle. The driver? A quick search around the perimeter revealed no other person.

Rothwell’s servants had described a coach clattering away at great speed on the cobblestone street. Here in the country, the roads were not much better than wide, water-worn ditches with loose stones strewn about. Only a fool would try to escape in a coach, especially since daylight was fast fading. Mayhap he’d had found his thief. An easy capture—almost disappointing.

Dashing up the muddy, slippery side of the coach, he squinted through the window. Crumpled within lay a lone figure in a dark cloak.

“You,” he said. “Get up.”

No movement.

He glanced around again, then pulled open the door and dropped inside. He knelt and pressed the point of his blade against the person hard enough to make his intent known. “Turn over. Show your hands.”

A soft moan came from the body, weak and light. And undeniably feminine.