by Sara Bennett
Once again she paused, glancing about her, listening to the wind, the rattle and clack of the branches, the rustle of leaves, the sway of the treetops. Eerie. The woods were much thicker and far darker than she’d expected, full of shadows and noises that preyed upon her imagination.
After last night Antoinette had determined to find the source of the light she’d seen, and which she suspected belonged to the highwayman, and despite the blustery, unwelcoming day and her growing unease, she meant to complete the task she’d set herself. It made sense that the highwayman was in hiding. The attitude of the servants had hinted at a man who kept to the shadows, whom they were protecting.
She’d been thinking he was Appleby’s man, bought body and soul, and sent to retrieve the letter. Perhaps he really was an outlaw, but she no longer believed he was Appleby’s creature. This man had a mind and heart of his own, and that was what made him so dangerous to her. If she found his dwelling in the woods, it might give her a clue to his identity.
Something with his name on it, perhaps.
Something she could show to Sir James Trevalen, or use to threaten the highwayman with disclosure. He’d have to leave then, and she would be safe from his kisses and caresses, and her increasing attraction to him and the delights to be found in his arms. Safe, before she lost her wits completely and failed herself and Cecilia.
Antoinette liked to think she was stronger minded than to fall for his charms, but the truth was she was in serious trouble. And the only way to get out of it was to run away—she was working on that—or to get the source of her trouble removed.
The path she was following through the woods was barely discernible, and now and again she would stop to make certain she hadn’t strayed from it. As she walked her long skirts trailed through the leaves and debris littering the ground, and try as she might to hold them up, there was always something attaching itself to the hem that she then had to shake free. The latest fashion in skirts was for length—they were meant to trail. Irritably Antoinette wondered, as she pulled her skirts free yet again, whether those who set the fashion for what women should wear had ever tried traipsing through a dense wood.
She looked up at the sky, or what she could see of it through the crisscrossing leaves and branches, and decided it was growing gloomier by the minute. There was a feeling of dampness, too, as if a great deal of rain was coming, and wryly she wondered how she’d cope with her long, trailing skirts if they were soaking wet.
A moment later, to her surprise, she stepped out of the woods and into a clearing, and there before her stood a cottage.
It looked like something from a fairy tale, the sort of fairy tale where the wicked witch was lurking in her cottage and waiting to trap unwary children. Old and dilapidated, the two-story building had an unhealthy slant to its slate roof, while overgrown shrubs formed a hedge about the perimeter. Blank black windows stared out at her from the ground story, while those at the top were either broken or boarded up. No smoke drifted from the chimney. The overall effect was one of desolation.
Perhaps she had the wrong house? Perhaps there was another one about somewhere, because she certainly had not imagined the light glowing in the middle of the woods.
Antoinette hesitated, not anxious to go any nearer, but she supposed that now she was here, she should take a closer look. She was not normally a coward, but something about the silent and gloomy sky, the woods, and the house in the clearing, made her edgy.
Suspicious, alert for danger, she made her way across the clearing. The cottage wasn’t as decrepit as it first appeared. Someone had cleared away the weeds from in front of the doorway, leaving just enough of the tangled mess to disguise the fact, and those panes of glass that hadn’t been broken were sparkling clean. The cottage might appear deserted but it was just a disguise.
A disguise such as the clever highwayman might devise.
Antoinette pushed at the solid old door and found it unlatched. It swung open without a creak, and she stepped inside the mysterious cottage, blinking against the gloom, her shoes barely audible on the stone floor. Dust motes danced in the wedge of light from the doorway, and she could see a table and a couple of chairs and a dresser filled with old crockery. The scent of herbs filled the air, old but still powerful, as if whoever once lived here had surrounded himself with aromatic plants.
Fascinated, forgetting caution, Antoinette took another step inside.
There was a noise behind her from the doorway—a footstep—and then a strong pair of arms came about her, pulling her back against a broad chest, and a familiar voice whispered in her ear.
“Little sparrow…”
Gabriel felt her jump, her body tensing. She tried to break free and run but he held her fast against him, enjoying the sensation of soft, warm, female flesh. Lucky, he thought, he had caught sight of her through the trees as he was heading home. He had his mask with him, and the visit to Sir James had ensured he was not wearing his Coombe clothes, so there was nothing to connect him to the smelly groom.
But as much as he was enjoying holding her, the fact that she was here, poking about where she had no right to be, irritated him. He hadn’t known she was aware of the cottage in the woods, and he was certain no one had mentioned it to her. Now that she had discovered his hideaway she would broadcast it far and wide, demanding he be arrested, putting Sir James Trevalen into a difficult position. He’d have to leave and find somewhere else, and he didn’t want to. Between Antoinette and Appleby, he was being driven from his rightful home.
“Do you know what happens to curious little sparrows?” he said in a low, menacing voice.
“No, what happens to curious little sparrows?” she said in a voice that strove to be calm, but he could hear the tremor in it.
“They are locked up in cages.” He lifted her feet off the floor and swung her around once, hearing her gasp of surprise. Her fingers clung to his arms where they were folded about her waist, her nails digging into the sleeves of his jacket.
“Let me go,” she said.
“This time it’s you who are trespassing,” he mocked, and spun her around again, her skirts belling out around them.
She gave a squeal, kicking her feet, and clinging harder.
Gabriel sighed and set her feet back down on the floor, but he didn’t release her. He didn’t want her fear. He wasn’t the sort of man who found pleasure in making others afraid of him. Instead he rested his chin lightly on top of her crown, once more enjoying her scent and the feel of her soft body nestled against him. Desire shot through him and as if it had a life of its own, his cock twitched and hardened. Frustratingly, he was back to feeling just as desperate as he had last time they were together.
“Antoinette…” Gabriel groaned softly.
She tried to turn her head to see him, and when he wouldn’t let her she grew impatient. “Are you injured?” she demanded. “Has someone shot you while you were robbing his coach? I should say it serves you right but…”
“But?” he repeated huskily, more interested in her curves and the way in which they seemed to fit to his harder, tougher body so perfectly.
“But I don’t enjoy bloodshed, even when the blood is yours.”
Gabriel opened his mouth to tell her that she needn’t worry, he was perfectly well, and then he changed his mind. There was concern in her voice, a sharp note of worry that hadn’t been there before. If he was as lacking in conscience as she thought, then he’d use this chance to punish her for finding his hiding place.
Only he couldn’t do that…could he…?
Gabriel staggered slightly, leaning his weight heavily on her. She gasped, turning in his arms and trying to support him. Her face was turned up to his, and he could see the darkening of her eyes as she searched for signs of an injury.
“Sit down,” she urged. “I can’t hold you; you’re too big.”
Gabriel was wearing his mask and there was nothing about him to hint at his true identity, even if she did know who Gabriel Langley was
. With a wince for good effect he let her help him to the wooden chair by the table and sank gratefully into it.
“Thank you,” he gasped. “I wouldn’t blame you if you walked out and left me.”
“I won’t do that.”
Through the slits in his mask he watched her, her expression a mixture of worry and doubt. She was wearing her spectacles—who would have thought those little round pieces of glass could make him feel so hot?—and wild tendrils of her hair framed her face. The bottom half of her long skirt was filthy, and there was a tear where the cloth had caught on something sharp.
Gabriel didn’t know why he thought her perfect when she was obviously far from it. But he did.
“I’ve behaved very badly toward you,” he said, with a shudder.
“Yes, you have.”
She was leaning over him now, and he tried to ignore the lush curve of her breasts, so close that if he leaned forward an inch he could rest his face against them and breathe in her sweet scent.
“Will you forgive me?” he whispered, gazing into her eyes.
They were beautiful eyes. Her spectacles had slipped down her nose, and he could see the warm brown color of her irises. A smile creased the corners, but a moment later was gone.
“Where are you hurt?” she said, a note of impatience in her voice. As if she wanted him to stop this nonsense so that she could do something practical to help him.
He shook his head and turned his face away. “Leave me here,” he said with a heroic grimace. “I deserve to die like a dog.”
She touched his shoulder, her fingers gentle. “No one deserves that.”
“You don’t know half of what I’ve done, Antoinette. I wouldn’t soil your ears with the details. A man like me was born to be hanged.”
“Even so…” She was watching him uncertainly, as well she might. His acting was appallingly bad but she believed him to be a highwayman, willing to go to any lengths to achieve his goal. She didn’t know he was Gabriel Langley, son of a baronet…
Or maybe he wasn’t the son of a baronet at all. He was a man without a name, without the home he loved, and this woman was the mistress of his arch enemy. He closed his eyes and began to writhe in his chair as if he were in his death throes.
“Please…” Her hand tightened on his shoulder, and then she touched his hair, stroking the untidy curls. When he opened his eyes and looked up at her, she was gazing down at him, and, just for a moment, he thought she looked like an angel. An angel wearing spectacles. And then desire took over again and she was all woman, the woman for him.
“Tell me where it hurts?” she said, enunciating the words clearly and slowly, so that even a man in his perilous state could understand.
He made a vague gesture downward.
Antoinette frowned as she tried to see where the wound was. She pressed her hands carefully to his chest, then his stomach, glancing up at him for guidance. He shook his head. Her hand rested lightly on his knee as she knelt before him on the floor.
“Tell me,” she begged. “I cannot help you if you will not tell me.”
“Up,” he groaned, with another spasm.
Her hands crept up over his thighs, her worried gaze searching his limbs for wounds or signs of trauma. He thought he might die. He remembered her mouth on him, and his discomfort doubled. Gabriel was no longer pretending to be in pain.
“There,” he gasped, pointing.
She actually reached out and laid her palm over him—who would have thought her such an innocent!—before realizing she’d been made a fool of. The next moment she leaped to her feet, eyes flashing, fists clenched, the image of womanly fury.
“You beast!”
Gabriel shook with laughter. Behind the mask his eyes were streaming.
“I cannot believe I was concerned for such a…a…” she stammered, so angry she couldn’t go on.
“Such a beast,” he offered, and took a shaky breath. “I didn’t know you cared, Antoinette.”
“I don’t!” she half screamed.
Laughter left him, and abruptly he stood up. She eyed him uneasily, backing away. “You’re lying,” he said coolly.
“No.”
Were those tears in her eyes? Impossible! And yet he felt his heart soften at the thought that they might be.
“Last night…” he began.
She turned her back on him. “I don’t want to discuss last night.”
“You enjoyed it. You can’t hide that from me.”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“Because of Appleby?” he scoffed. “Why are you so loyal to such a man?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You sound as if you hate him.”
She sounded surprised, and he in turn was surprised that she wouldn’t expect him to hate such a man. Of course he hated Appleby! Hadn’t His Lordship told her his plans? But perhaps he hadn’t. And Antoinette didn’t know she was speaking to Gabriel Langley, the victim of Appleby’s vengeful plot. In her eyes he was nothing but a thief.
Perhaps it was time he explained.
“The letter—” Gabriel began.
“I’m tired of the letter!” she burst out. “I’m tired of you, and I’m tired of Lord Appleby. You’re both as bad as each other.”
Gabriel’s heart went cold. I’m not like him. He’s not my father.
“It’s because of the money,” she added quietly, her mouth drooping.
Was that her excuse for siding with Appleby? Money? He understood she had to live, but surely there were other ways?
“You’re right, I do hate him,” Gabriel said harshly. “But it’s not because of the money. I hate him because he has you.”
She looked as surprised as he felt. The words had burst out of him, and now it was too late to take them back. He wanted her. Gabriel told himself that an experienced woman like her probably already knew that, and she would use it against him.
He didn’t care.
He could still feel the brush of her fingers against his flesh through his trousers, tantalizingly close but not close enough. The time for game playing was over.
“Come here Antoinette,” he said, and knew his decision was in his eyes for her to see.
She turned and fled.
Gabriel went after her.
Chapter 15
As Antoinette reached the edge of the clearing, she gave one desperate glance back. It was enough. He was gaining on her. She plunged into the gloomy woods. Her long skirts snagged on twigs and low bushes, and violently she wrenched them free. Behind her she heard him curse as he stumbled, crashing through the undergrowth. Another quick glance behind her showed him several yards away.
Her heart was thudding, a curious mixture of excitement and fear pumping through her veins. She knew she should be terrified of this man and what might happen if he caught her—she’d read the hot desire in his eyes. But she wasn’t. She’d run because she was just as afraid of herself as of him. When he looked at her, the melting sensation inside her body had been warning enough to send her fleeing.
It was either that or fling herself into his arms.
Besides, she was angry with him for making her think he was wounded, and just as angry with herself for letting him see how much it mattered to her.
A tree loomed up in front of her, and at the last moment she darted around it, pushing against the trunk as she passed. She didn’t need to glance behind her this time to know he was closing in.
She’d lost the path through the woods. Now the trees were closer together, and the undergrowth was thicker, catching at her clothing, blocking her way so that she had no choice but to force herself through, or pause long enough to find an alternate route. Far above, through the swaying branches, the sky was darkening. At any second Antoinette expected the storm to break.
On she ran, blindly, praying she was heading for the manor, and that in another moment she’d burst from the woods and find sanctuary.
Or would she? He’d follow her inside. He’d chase her upstai
rs and force open her door. He’d kiss her mouth and touch her skin and…and the truth was…she wanted him to.
Something gripped the back of her skirt and brought her up short. She swung around, fighting, trying to free herself, and promptly slipped over, landing on her back in a soft pile of leaf mulch. The smell of earth and vegetation rose around her, and with it an herbal scent similar to the one she’d detected in the highwayman’s cottage.
Dazed, she looked at her hand, and saw that when she fell she’d grabbed at a nearby plant. The sweet aroma was coming from that.
“Can we stop now?” he pleaded.
She looked up. He was on the ground, too, crawling toward her, the black mask hidden in the shadows. He shrugged off his jacket and threw it to one side, his chest rising and falling from the chase. The damp air was causing his fair hair to curl wildly around his head—an angel’s halo.
Only he was no angel.
As if in agreement there was a deep rumble of thunder, and then the heavens opened. Rain came down, heavy and soaking, dripping through the trees and falling on her face as she lay gazing upward.
Breathlessly she began to laugh.
He grinned down at her, water dripping from his hair and trickling down the mask. His shirt clung to his broad shoulders in wet patches, and he pulled it over his head and flung it aside with the jacket. His skin glowed palely, muscles rippling as he knelt at her side.
She desired this man as she had never thought to desire any man, and as she looked at him her mind became crystal-clear. Lord Appleby planned to marry her, and he’d already ruined her reputation. Even if she finally escaped his clutches, it was doubtful a respectable gentleman would ever propose to her now—she was not naïve enough to believe all could be mended. But she could still win. By giving herself to the highwayman, at least she would deny Appleby the pleasure of taking her maidenhead. And at least she would have made her own choice as to who would be her first lover.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
“Sparrow,” he groaned, and, bending his head, obeyed.