by Nancy Butler
“I was going home, before you carried me off. Are you holding me for ransom, is that what this is about?”
“You’re partly right ... ransom being just another word for blackmail.”
“I am happily unfamiliar with the subtleties of such things.”
He leaned toward her. “It’s quite simple ... I expect even you can understand it. A wealthy young woman is abducted, compromised by a money-hungry toad, and then blackmailed into marrying that toad ... or else she risks breaking her father’s heart.”
She jumped to her feet, her hands fisted at her sides. “And are you knave enough to do that?”
MacHeath rolled his eyes toward the heavens. The chit had clearly seen too many bad theatrical productions.
“I warn you, you’d better not come near me,” she said with venom.
“You’re not in any position to be giving orders,” he said placidly as he returned to his meat pie.
“Promise me,” she insisted, taking a step closer.
He looked up at her from over his dinner. “No.”
Her eyes grew wild, and in desperation she plucked a burning branch from the edge of the fire and flung it at him in a shower of sparks.
“Damn!” MacHeath cried as he scrambled away from the branch, dropping the better part of his pasty. He batted furiously at the glowing embers that had landed on his coat, and then groaned in frustration when he realized she had run off again.
When he caught up with her, she was attempting to climb onto the horse’s back—she had both hands on the saddle and one foot in the stirrup—but since he’d loosened the girth, the saddle had slipped around to the horse’s ribs. She was hopping awkwardly on one foot, trying to regain her balance.
“You are more trouble than a sack of wet cats,” he muttered as he wrestled her away from the horse. She spun around in his hold and tried to kick him in the shins, and he was forced to wrap his arms around her to keep himself from bodily harm.
“Don’t you touch me!” she spat out, thrusting away from him. She put her head up and, with icy disdain, walked back to the fire.
He removed the saddle from the agitated horse and spared a moment to calm him before he followed her.
“Sit down,” he ordered as he kicked the burning branch back into the fire. “First of all, I’d need to have my brain box examined if I ever went anywhere near you. I was speaking hypothetically just now. I would hardly refer to myself as a toad.”
She cast him a resentful glare before she settled onto her blanket opposite him. “Your coat is still burning,” she said conversationally.
He looked down in alarm and quickly tamped out the few smoldering patches. “Thank you,” he said.
She sat silent for a time, her eyes wary. Finally she put her chin up and said, “I insist that you explain yourself.”
“I’ve told you what I know.”
“Yes, that someone was going to compromise me. I would like to know who.”
He had a feeling that when he gave her an answer, her mood was not going to improve noticeably. “I am going to sleep now,” he said with a wide yawn. “It’s been a long day, what with abductions and attempts to set me afire, and such. I will tell you what I know in the morning.”
He reached toward her with his boot and poked her meaningfully in the foot. “And if you run off again while I sleep, you might like to know that there are two ugly customers after you. If they manage to find you, I think you will be very sorry. Not unless you fancy East End ruffians. Though, from what I know of you, there is always that possibility.”
“How can I sleep? You have given me no reason to trust you.”
He cocked his head thoughtfully for a moment. “Will it help if I tell you that I have an old connection to your family?”
“I know all my father’s acquaintances,” she said with a skeptical frown.
“I didn’t say it was your father,” he replied. “Now, try to sleep. You’ll make better sense of things in the morning.”
* * *
Alexa felt a wave of relief as she watched him roll over in his blanket, his back toward the fire. She knew she was still in shock, still quaking on the inside at this distressing turn of events. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. Even in her more daring escapades as a child—exploring the old tin mines on Dartmoor or climbing the cliffs that overlooked the Channel to hunt for bird’s nests—she had always been in control of the situation.
But now she was at the mercy of this stranger, and it ate at her to feel so helpless. It was too bad she had left her reticule behind in the coach when she went to help the stranger. She never, ever, traveled the roads unarmed. The rascal would not have carried her very far with a pistol ball in his belly.
Still, she was clever and resourceful, certainly a match for this paltry fellow with his tattered greatcoat and worn boots. She didn’t believe for a minute his trumped-up tale of rescuing her. It was more likely he was going to ransom her; it was well-known in London that she was a considerable heiress.
Her gaze shifted from the fire to where the stranger lay sleeping, and she pondered just how a man fell so low that he was reduced to preying on women. His dark hair reflected the red gleam of the flames. Several strands caught the light and shone a bright chestnut. The image jarred her, and she immediately shut her eyes.
When she was a girl she’d known a young man with hair like that, a deep brown with hidden highlights. She used to watch him working in the sun, just to see those rare sparks appear. Though she was careful that he never caught her at it. She also recalled sneaking into her father’s workrooms to watch him sketching or making models of his designs. His deft hands could carve miraculous miniature ships from blocks of wood. He was a true artist, Papa always said.
She made a pretense of being cross with him all the time, because she was so wary of him. Wary of how much he drew her to him. Like a lodestone. She would daydream, though, that when she was older, once she had outgrown her awkward, inconvenient childhood, he would be waiting for her.
That dream had been shattered when the young man did something deceitful and was taken away to jail. Her child’s mind had not been able to comprehend this, why the man who was her father’s favorite—perhaps even his chosen successor, some whispered—had betrayed him.
For months they talked of nothing else in the shipyard, but the workmen shared few of the details with her. She learned more of his crime when she was older and could understand such wicked things. After that, she determined to put him out of her mind, and so she had grown up and the memories had faded, but somehow she’d never forgotten how the sun gleamed off his wind-tossed hair.
She shivered fiercely. Even in this sheltered place the cold was insidious, making her bones ache. She crawled off to the stand of pines and returned with the stranger’s cape, wrapping it around herself like a chrysalis before she snuggled again into her blanket. The wool of the cape smelled of heather and horses. A comforting scent, redolent with memories of running free on the moors beyond her father’s home, astride a pony as untamed as she was.
* * *
A few hours later, after she’d drifted into a restless sleep, a sound woke her. Someone was singing softly. “Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.” She opened her eyes and saw the stranger sitting up on the other side of the fire, feeding twigs into the flames. There was something oddly reassuring about a kidnapper who hummed Christmas songs. Still, she reminded herself, he was holding her against her will.
“It was dying,” he said when he noticed her looking at him. “I didn’t want you to get cold.”
“It is difficult to sleep with you caterwauling,” she said bluntly.
“The blasted song just keeps running through my head,” he said with a slight smile. “Though I’ve been told I have a rather pleasant voice.”
“There is nothing pleasant about you,” she said, leaning up on one elbow so he could observe her sneer.
He studied her intently, his eyes dark and probing.
When he spoke again, his tone was that of a stern parent. “I know you think this show of defiance is necessary. That I will be impressed by your spirit and your grit. But the truth is, I find you extremely tiresome. I have no patience with spoiled children, which is exactly how you are behaving. Now, I know this is not what you are used to—”
“That is a gross understatement,” she muttered loudly.
“—but it is how things are at present. I had a very sound reason for taking you, and whether you believe me or not, the threat still exists. And I cannot guarantee your safety if you defy me at every turn.”
“Take me back to Reading, then,” she entreated. “I will come to no harm there.”
He shook his head slowly. “The only place I know you will come to no harm is with me.”
“Then I demand you tell me who you are saving me from.”
His eyes darted to her face. “See? You are in no mood to be reasonable. Still issuing orders as though I were one of your father’s lackeys.” He looked down at the twig he held and snapped it in two against his thigh.
She opened her mouth to protest, and then shut it again without uttering a word. He was right. There was no arguing his harsh and distressingly accurate observation. She had been acting like a child in the throes of a tantrum instead of a grown woman displaying fortitude and courage.
For one thing, she might try displaying a little dignity. Somewhere in her past, the ability to behave with ladylike decorum had been drummed into her. She summoned up her most gracious voice and said, “It was not my intention to—”
“Go to sleep,” he interrupted her gruffly.
He ignored her after that, his eyes drawn down to the fire, his face taut with displeasure. She studied him covertly, needing to distract herself from the thousand questions that were circling inside her head.
The flames danced against the planes of his face, lighting the high cheekbones and the lean jut of his nose. His eyes were in shadow, but the lashes were dark and long enough to touch his cheeks. His mouth, now formed into a melancholy half smile as he gazed into the fire, was wide and distinctly etched over a strong, determined chin.
It was not the face of a polished town beau, there were too many lines around his eyes, too much weathering on his tanned skin for ideal masculine beauty. He’d been marked by time and experience and, she suspected, by some terrible sadness. But those marks only added to his appeal. She was dismayed to discover that she found his harsh, rugged countenance compelling, even attractive.
His gaze shifted and he caught her examining him. She fought down her blush of embarrassment.
“You’ve been to sea,” she said softly. “You’ve got sailor’s eyes.”
“You’re wrong,” he said with a tight frown. “I never go near the sea.”
Alexa sighed. “Neither do I ... not any longer.”
“What?” he said. “I thought you were on your way to Exeter. Last time I looked, it was right there on the coast.”
“My father does not allow me near the water when I am there. And when I am gone from his home, I spend my time inland.”
“So you are under his thumb, then, eh? That surprises me.”
“Why? Because I fought back when you carried me off?” Her dark brows drew together. “Let me tell you, then, why I don’t fight him. He is a shipbuilder, as you doubtless know. He believes it is his fault that I am unwed, that he raised a female wharf rat, to use his own words. It makes him very unhappy—he fears for my future—and so I must stay away from the sea and from the river where he builds his ships, from all the places where I learned such wild habits.”
“Why don’t you wed, then, if that’s all it would take to please him?”
She gave him a tiny, wry smile. “Because that would make me unhappy.”
“You are an unnatural female,” he said under his breath.
“Yes, I believe I’ve heard that before. But I have little use for men in general. I find them bossy, belittling, and full of opinions about what is best for me. The few I have esteemed have inevitably disappointed me.”
“Including your father?”
“Most especially my father. He turned his back on me once I was grown.”
“And yet you care about him and obey him.”
“I do ...” Her voice drifted off.
He threw the last of his branches into the flames, and then moved closer to her before he stretched out on the ground. Alexa wished he’d stayed on the far side of the fire—now that she’d noticed how attractive he was, she was having trouble keeping her eyes off his face. He would surely notice her scrutiny.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, propping his head on his hand, “that one of those belittling, bossy men might also inspire affection in you? Most women find men aggravating and troublesome, but they still agree to marry them and have children with them. I believe some women are actually quite fond of their husbands.”
She wrinkled her nose. “In my experience, women only marry to gain security. As Mr. Franklin once said, if you barter your independence for security, you deserve neither.”
“Ho,” he crowed. “She quotes Benjamin Franklin. Now, that is rare in a female.” He added with a wicked grin, “You know, he also said that all cats are gray in the dark.”
Her cheeks drew in. “I am aware that that phrase has some bawdy meaning, and I think it’s very unfair of you to say such a thing, when I have no means of responding intelligently.”
“You like sparring, don’t you?” he said as an aside. “But I wasn’t baiting you. I meant that ... when you are in the dark with a man, you might find yourself overlooking his faults and discovering a few of his virtues.”
She made a tortured face. “Please. I am not some schoolroom miss. I know what transpires between a man and a woman in the dark—”
“Do you?” he asked softly.
“And I do not think those ... relations ... could possibly change my view of men. In fact, I expect they would cement my bad opinion.” She pointed a finger at him. “Can you deny that a man who is overbearing and smug in his daily life would be any different during … intimate moments with his wife?”
The stranger rolled onto his stomach and set his chin on his crossed arms. He stared at her for several seconds, his eyes narrowed. “I bet you’ve never even been kissed,” he said at last.
Alexa puffed out a quick breath. “Only by my odious cousin Darwin, when I was fifteen. I had to hit him with a tennis racquet to make him stop.”
“Well, that explains your distaste.”
“Why?” she asked sharply. “Do you know my cousin?”
“It’s the name ... I can’t imagine any woman wanting to be kissed by a Darwin.”
“What is your name?” she asked, before she realized he might take that as a leading question.
He hesitated only an instant. “MacHeath.”
“That’s not your real name, is it?”
“No.” He smiled and rubbed one finger along his lip. “Where I come from, it’s best not to know a man’s real name.”
“Are you a Scot?”
“My father was. I was born in Glasgow, but I came here to England when he died.”
“Where did you live?”
He shook his head. “Enough questions. We need to be away early ... you’d better go back to sleep.”
She lay down, wriggling to make a hollow in the pine needles before she pulled the cloak up to her chin. “Mr. MacHeath, will you tell me one thing?”
“Mmm ...” His eyes were closed, but she saw him nod.
“You said to me earlier, ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ And then you implied you had a connection with my family. The truth is, I have no idea who you are. Should I recognize you?”
He opened one eye. “I am Madman MacHeath, the notorious highwayman. Does that ease your mind?”
She grinned at him. “You are not a very good liar.”
“I am also not a very good highwayman ... I keep carrying off the women inst
ead of their jewels.”
She was still chuckling when he rolled over and went to sleep.
Chapter 5
MacHeath roused her gently with a hand on her shoulder. She was so soundly asleep, he feared she might have frozen to death during the night. He’d definitely have to find them proper lodgings for the balance of their journey.
He was relieved that some sort of truce had been achieved between them last night. She had actually spoken to him with civility before she’d fallen asleep. He didn’t blame her for being upset with him, but he had no taste for being tongue-whipped by a stripling girl. Especially one he had taken the trouble to aid.
He thought back to that fateful night when he’d overheard Quincy making his plans in the tavern. He’d barely slept for thinking about Alexa, and the life she would lead if she was leg-shackled to her pimple of a cousin.
It occurred to him that the easiest course would have been to track Quincy down in London and cosh him over the head to keep him from his wicked rendezvous with Alexa. But MacHeath knew that if he merely put Quincy out of the way for a few days—leaving Alexa to go blithely on her way to Exeter—she certainly wouldn’t learn of it the next time her cousin cooked up some plot to compromise her.
It also crossed his mind that if Alexa were no longer in the picture, as in deceased, Quincy might very well be next in line for Prescott’s money. This troubling notion chewed at him. What if Quincy had misled Connor and Finch about his intentions? What if instead of saving her from those ruffians and bedding her, he intended to murder her. How easy it would be to plead his case with her grieving father—”But, sir ... before I could remove her from their clutches, one of her abductors shot her. She died in my arms, dear uncle, telling me of her love for you.”
A shiver of disgust racked him. He wondered if Quincy had it in him to be quite that bloodthirsty. His usual style was back-stabbing inference and malicious slander.
MacHeath had looked across the room then, to the small pile of gold coins scattered on the rickety table. Beside them lay the last vestiges of his life at sea ... his copper spyglass and a brace of pistols. Not much there to pawn ... and he would need funds if he was to carry out this enterprise.