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.