“You are speaking about possessions,” she reminded him, but she felt herself smile slightly.
He shrugged. “It is good to have a place to live.”
She had to laugh, and she found herself leaning toward him. “What will you get in return?” she asked him. “No dowry. Although,” she added with a sigh, “I’m sure the godparents have arranged something. No title. No great lineage. In fact, all the country is surely wondering why you’re marrying me.”
“Perhaps I have been delighted to discover a beautiful spirit as well as a beautiful face. And your guardians do rave constantly about your achievements. There is nothing to soothe the soul like a talented musician.”
“You can afford to hire all the musicians in the kingdom,” she told him.
“Perhaps I’m more interested in intimate entertainment before a fire, in one musician for life, a song, if you will, with heart and feeling.”
Something in his voice, deep and husky, triggered a quickening inside of her. Incredible!
And did he think her an idiot?
Ridiculous as the thought might be, she was suddenly certain he was indeed the highwayman. But why would he carry on such a masquerade? Surely this man had fortune aplenty without the need to rob carriages.
“Lovely sentiment,” she murmured, staring at him.
Did he really think he had her fooled? That she could be so easily taken in by a mask?
Apparently he did.
“And you think any sentiment that falls from my lips must be false?” he queried.
“I don’t know what I think at the moment. I’ve just met you. And I certainly can’t begin to understand how you can imagine I could fulfill any dreams you may harbor, or why you’re willing to go through with this.”
“But I am,” he said. That time, there was a note of steel in his voice. She frowned, puzzled. He was the highwayman. And as such, he’d conversed with her. Sat close. Danced with her. Talked with her.
She lowered her head quickly, realizing that her heart was soaring in a most bizarre fashion. She had begun to feel a totally morally wrong fascination with the highwayman, but there had been something in their exchanges that had simply…beguiled her. To realize that her intended and the highwayman were one and the same…
But what was going on?
“You seem to be a very busy man. I don’t see how marriage can possibly fit into your schedule,” she said, then turned toward the window.
“One makes it fit,” he murmured.
She pushed open the drape, determined to look out, wishing they were at her home in the woods already, so afraid she was going to give herself away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She couldn’t resist. She turned and looked at him, letting the curtain drop back over the windows. “I suppose I’m a little nervous. My encounter with the highwayman, you know.”
He sat back. “I sincerely doubt he will attack this carriage.”
“Oh? He is rather brave…or at least reckless. He attacked the Earl of Carlyle’s carriage.”
“But you were riding in it alone.”
“He couldn’t have known that.”
“Maybe the rogue had been watching you.”
“I think he is just a bit stupid.”
“Stupid? The man has eluded all law enforcement—and the Earl of Carlyle.”
She arched a brow. “It sounds as if you are defending him.”
“Of course I’m not defending him!”
Ally looked down at her hands, determined not to betray herself. She was even more certain now that Mark Farrow and the highwayman were one and the same. What she couldn’t begin to fathom was the reason for his dual identity.
She was sure she startled him when she suddenly reached for his hands. Pretending she was reaching out for strength, she carefully studied his fingers as she said, “He will be caught. Eventually. But until that time, he might well attack this carriage—oh! He already attacked this carriage, didn’t he? I heard your father had been stopped and robbed. Afterward, the highwayman reportedly donated generously to several of the churches in the East End.”
He didn’t so much as bat an eye. He stared at her, and the only telltale sign of his interest was a slight twitch in his fingers. He sat back, drawing his hands with him. “I had forgotten,” he murmured.
“How could you forget such an assault upon your own father?” she demanded.
He waved a hand in the air. “My father was not shaken. It seemed of little importance to him. I think he believed the man saw himself as some kind of modern-day Robin Hood.”
“You are very unusual people,” she murmured. “Perhaps your father was simply taken by surprise and handed over what the thief wanted. If the highwayman were to stop us now, we would have to give him anything he demanded.”
“You think I cannot defend myself?” he asked.
She shrugged. “He is very able.”
“I am a crack shot, Miss Grayson.”
“He wields a bullwhip, like those you see in pictures from the Americas.”
“I can take care of myself—and of you, my dear.”
“I would hate to see you killed,” she murmured.
“Well, thank you for not wishing me dead, at least.”
“I’m warning you, he might well kill you if you fought him.”
“Perhaps I would kill him.”
She waved a patronizing hand in the air, aware she had gotten beneath his skin. Men—even the best of them—had their egos.
“Perhaps. But I see this conversation is distressing you. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just that…I believe I was very near where we are now when the Earl of Carlyle’s carriage was stopped.”
“You needn’t fret,” he said, and she thought he sounded quite irritated. “If we were stopped, it wouldn’t be simply a matter of ability. I would die for you.”
“How honorable. But if you did die for me, then I’d be left with that rogue.” She offered him very wide eyes and a shiver.
“Miss Grayson, we will not be attacked.”
“But—”
“Let’s cease this conversation, shall we?” he demanded.
She would cease for the moment, she decided. With the curtain drawn back again, she looked out as they passed through the village and was glad to see that no protest was in evidence.
The carriage slowed as they came into an area of more traffic. Staring at the usual flow of village business, she was startled to see a woman in black standing before a storefront window.
Many women wore black, she told herself. Full mourning attire was hardly a rarity.
Yet there was something familiar about this woman.
“What is it?” Mark asked sharply, sliding across the carriage to sit next to her.
“I…nothing.”
“No, it’s something.”
“It’s silly.”
“Tell me.”
He was close. The pressure of his body was not…displeasing. Nor was his scent. And his face was right beside hers, tempting her to touch him.
“Well?” he demanded.
She lowered her head quickly. Proximity did not seem to be affecting him as it did her.
“I keep thinking I see a woman in black.”
“A woman in black?”
“I told you…it was nothing.”
“It drew your attention, so it was something.”
“She was at the protest against the monarchy last week. I believe Sir Andrew Harrington’s cousin, Elizabeth Prine, the widow of the second man who was murdered, was beside her. And then, just now…I seem to see a woman in black wherever I go.”
“There are always women in black.”
“I know.”
“Still, you are amazingly observant.”
She felt him studying her closely. Too closely. He couldn’t possibly know what was going through her mind, she thought.
She let the curtain fall, but he remained next to her. She had thought it
meant nothing to him that they sat so close. Then he asked softly, “Would marriage to me really be such a punishment?”
His unique gray-rimmed eyes were on her, far too intently. She almost felt as if she had been mesmerized. Then he moved his fingers to her cheeks and brushed over her flesh, exploring the contours of her face. She was startled to feel a rush of heat, excitement cascading along the length of her. She longed to reach out and touch him in return, and she had to remind herself that they had just met, and that, engaged or not, there were rules as to how she must behave.
“I barely know you,” she whispered.
“But my intent is for you to know me very well,” he replied, and there was a huskiness in his voice, a rueful teasing note. It seemed as if the entire carriage had filled with heat. She forgot that they were passing through the village, that they were at long last very nearly home. “I am not so terrible,” he murmured, and he picked up her hand and brushed her fingers with the lightest kiss. There was something incredibly arousing in that small gesture. Once again, waves of electricity went sweeping through her.
“You barely know me,” she managed, her eyes somehow riveted to his. “Perhaps I am terrible,” she whispered.
He shook his head slowly, and she felt a wave of panic. She tried very hard to find a sense of logic and decorum. It was true that she barely knew him. She’d had three encounters with him…today, and twice as an outlaw, and she couldn’t begin to understand why he was playing such an underhanded game….
He leaned closer. His mouth was perfectly formed, lips full, firm, sensual…
“We are engaged,” he reminded her, the fingers of his right hand entwined with hers and those of his left winding into the hair at her nape, cradling her skull. His lips touched hers in a kiss that was taken but not coerced, seductive in its very strength and boldness, yet so slow and enticing that she never thought to protest. His mouth moved over hers, and she inhaled what seemed to be the essence of the man, in any costume. Never once did she hesitate. She felt the exotic caress of his lips and tongue, the kiss deepening while the heat within the carriage seemed to explode. The deep and persistent stroke of his tongue in her mouth was beyond her dreams of the erotic, and she found herself moving into his arms, her fingers falling on his chest not to push him away, but rather to feel the thud of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath….
Then, slowly, he pulled back, his fingers still entwined with hers, his eyes a shimmering silver. She realized the carriage had stopped.
She had lost her mind, she decided.
“Regretfully, we’re here,” he said huskily.
“Oh!” Self-consciously, she tried to smooth back the strands of her hair, tried to withdraw—not an easy task in the confines of the carriage. She touched her lips, which seemed different now. She was shaken. She was angry.
Angry that she had been so easily swept away by him.
“Then I must go in,” she said, a little sharply.
“Why are you angry?” he asked.
“I’m not angry. I’m home. May we alight?”
“I am ever more convinced of the rightness of this marriage,” he said softly.
“We shall see,” she murmured, thinking to skim past him.
But he caught her. The feel of his hands upon her was nearly unbearable, it was so sensual.
“I am enchanted,” he said, and she thought it sounded almost like a warning.
“And I am greatly uncomfortable remaining in this carriage,” she said. “If you don’t mind…”
“It’s quite all right. We are engaged. There’s no need for you to be mad.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re not mad at me, you know. You’re mad at yourself.”
“I’m not mad at anyone.”
He smiled, and the slow curving of his lips infuriated her. “Yes, you are. You didn’t intend to respond to my kiss, but no matter how you try, you cannot find me repulsive.”
“Perhaps I shall have to try kissing every man I fail to find repulsive.”
His eyes narrowed. “We are engaged. The ring is on your finger.”
“I can take it off.” But in fact, she couldn’t. It caught on her knuckle. “Oh, good heavens! May we get out of this carriage now?”
At last he moved, but she longed to slap him hard, for that cockiness was in his eyes, the same expression she had seen in the highwayman’s gaze.
But he stepped down without further comment, turning not to assist her but to lift her to the ground.
“Thank you for the ride. I’m home and quite safe now.”
She thought that at last, she could make her escape, but the aunts chose that moment to step outside.
“Oh,” Edith cried, “it’s Mark Farrow!”
Violet, nearly crashing into Edith in the doorway, was equally observant. “Mark! How lovely. You decided to see our Ally home.”
Merry, sweeping out alongside Violet, had the presence to suggest, “You must come in for a spot of tea before your ride home.”
“Oh, he’s far too busy,” Ally said quickly.
“Not at all. I would love a cup of tea,” Mark said, and the glance he gave her was clear evidence of the delight he was feeling at her discomfort.
“But your coachman may be needed—”
“That gentleman might enjoy a spot of tea, as well,” Violet said.
“Arthur?” Mark called easily, and the coachman, a large, broad-shouldered fellow with slightly graying hair and a quick smile, stepped down from the driver’s seat. “Arthur, would you care for a cup of tea?”
Arthur swept off his livery hat and bowed his head. “Tea would be most lovely, sir.” He turned to Violet. “If you don’t mind, Mum.”
“We have only a humble abode,” Violet said, “but all visitors are welcome here.”
Merry clasped her hands together. “Tea it is.”
Ally barely suppressed a groan.
“Oh, this is lovely, lovely. Do come in.” Edith beckoned.
So, despite her discomfort, Ally again felt the support of Mark Farrow’s arm as he led her into the cottage. There, at last, she managed to disentangle herself. “Darlings,” she said firmly to the aunts. “You three must sit down and chat. I will bring the tea.”
“Oh, no, dear. You must sit with your fiancé—” Merry began.
“We’ve already had the loveliest chat in the carriage. Now, you three must get to know him better.”
She disappeared into the kitchen before any protest could be lodged. Once there, she seethed for several minutes before remembering she needed to set the water to boiling.
As she stood there, she found herself touching her lips again, and remembering. She didn’t hate him at all, she knew. He was simply accustomed to being the one who was in control, of himself and of the world around him…
Even as a highwayman.
And she was supposed to marry him.
She bit her lip, listening to the chatter from the parlor. He laughed easily. He complimented the aunts on little things in the house. He seemed to have nothing but the best rapport with his coachman. She felt the strangest tremor take hold of her. She was going to become his wife. She had thought to fight against such an arrangement, but though her life had been sheltered, she had met men before, and she had never had such a feeling of magic as when he touched her….
“Ah, but he deserves all I can give in return,” she said into the empty room, and she laughed suddenly, plotting.
Because she was quite certain she would see the highwayman again. Very soon.
ON SUNDAY, MARK CHAFED. The service in the small church outside the village seemed endless, and the sermon, during which the rector strongly urged people to behave with temperance, was the perfect cure for sleeplessness.
From where he sat by his father’s side, he could see that Violet, Merry and Edith were in their pew, with Ally there, as well, beside Violet. His heart quickened as he decided that when the service was over, he wou
ld insist they come to his father’s house for luncheon.
At some point during the service he found himself staring at Ally. Taken unaware, color rushed to her cheeks and she looked away as soon as she noticed his attention.
When he rose for the final hymn, it was with every intention of heading straight to her, but as he walked down the aisle, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He turned and, to his surprise, saw Detective Ian Douglas. The situation must be dire if the man had left the city to find him.
“May I speak with you?” Ian asked.
Mark saw that his father had gone on; he was greeting the sisters and Ally. Ally noticed him, then turned away. It seemed she despised his real self, despite that kiss.
And yet…
It was impossible to forget touching her. The feel of her lips beneath his. The supple warmth of her body…
“Mark?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. What is it, Ian? Not another murder?”
“A problem.”
“With?”
“Lord Lionel Wittburg. Will you come with me?”
His father had turned. He saw Ian Douglas and rolled his eyes, but he nodded.
“Will you give me just a moment?” Mark asked Ian. At the other man’s nod, he strode down the aisle and out the door, to where the others waited in the sun just beyond. With the eyes of the village upon him, he dared do no less than at least greet his bride-to-be.
She watched him approach with wary eyes.
“My dear,” he greeted her. As he knew that, with the aunts about and his father there, she would not protest, he caught her hands, kissed both her cheeks, and then, as he met her eyes, teased her lips with the brush of a kiss, as well. He could almost feel her stiffen, but as he had expected, she stood still, if defiant—and she didn’t make a single move to strike him, though he was sure she longed to. He might have charmed the aunties with his visit for tea, but she was still not impressed.
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