The Bride Thief

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  Perhaps that wasn't a limp at all, but rather a spring in his step, Eric mused to himself.

  Shifting his gaze, he looked toward the woods in the distance, his thoughts returning to the matter at hand.

  He shared only a casual acquaintance with the Briggehams, as he did with most of the families in the area. He spent most of his time in London, keeping in close contact with his solicitor and man of affairs, spending only several weeks during the summer here at Wesley Manor. During those few short weeks every year, he expertly dodged the matchmaking eyes of the village mamas, one of the most notable of whom was Mrs. Cordelia Briggeham. Of course Mrs. Briggeham would know, along with every other mother in Tunbridge Wells, his longstanding aversion to marriage, although they were not privy to all his reasons. Unfortunately, that aversion only served as a challenge to the intrepid daughter-ridden matchmakers.

  He had to admit that the three youngest Briggeham daughters were rare beauties. One of them, he couldn't recall which, had recently married Baron Whitestead. He had only a vague recollection of Samantha. Frowning, he tried to remember what she looked like, but could only conjure up a shadowy image of chestnut hair and thick spectacles. He knew via the gossip mill that she was considered an eccentric bluestocking and sadly lacked feminine appeal, a fact rendered all the more glaring by the extreme beauty of her sisters.

  In contrast, he had no trouble calling to mind Major Wilshire-a large, blustery, arrogant man with a ramrod stiff military bearing. Eric found him tolerable only in small doses. As far as Eric knew, the Major never smiled, and laughter was out of the question. He sported thick, graying side whiskers, a quizzing glass, and tended to bark out orders in a booming voice as if he still commanded a battlefield.

  Still, the Major was intelligent and reportedly not unkind. Why didn't Miss Briggeham wish to marry him? She was well beyond the first blush of youth, and if she were as dowdy as he'd heard, she couldn't possibly attract many suitors. Arthur had reported that she'd claimed not to love the man. A snort escaped Eric's lips, and he shook his head.

  He'd be hard-pressed to name even one marriage among his acquaintances that had been based on love. Certainly not his parents' marriage, and God knows not Margaret's…

  Turning from the window, he strode across the Axminster rug to his desk. Reaching across the mahogany surface, he picked up the miniature of his sister. She'd had it painted for him just before he entered the Army. "Keep it with you, Eric," Margaret had said, her encouraging smile not masking the deep concern in her dark eyes. "That way I'll be with you. Keeping you safe."

  A lump tightened his throat. Her lovely face had accompanied Him to places he chose to forget. She'd been the one spot of beauty in an existence of ugliness. Yes, she had kept him safe. Yet he had failed to keep her safe in return.

  He stared at her image resting in his palm, and a vivid memory rose in his mind's eye. The day she'd been born. His father's disgust with his wife for presenting him with a girl. His exhausted mother's sadness. Creeping into the nursery that night, staring at the tiny, cooing bundle. "It doesn't matter that Father doesn't like you," he'd whispered, his five-year-old heart filled with resolve. "He doesn't like me either. I'll watch over you." She'd wrapped her minuscule fist around his finger and that, quite simply, had been that.

  A myriad of images flashed through his mind. Teaching Margaret to ride. Helping her rescue a bird with a broken wing. Patching up the scrapes she'd sustained when she fell from a tree limb, so their father wouldn't scold her. Escaping to the quiet of the forest to evade the constant strain and arguing in the house. Teaching her to fish, then rarely ever catching more fish than she. Acting out Shakepeare's plays. Watching her grow from an impish child into a beautiful young woman had filled him with deep pride. We were all we had in this unhappy family, weren't we, Margaret? We made it bearable for each other. What would I have done without you?

  But he had failed her.

  His lingers closed around the miniature. Like Samantha Briggeham, Margaret had been forced to wed, a fact Eric hadn't forgiven his father for, even when he lay on his deathbed. He had bargained innocent, beautiful Margaret away like a piece of jewelry to elderly Viscount Darvin, who wanted an heir. Rumors of Darvin's debauchery had circulated through the ton for years, but he had possessed the attributes Eric's father had sought when making the match-money and several unentailed estates. In spite of his own substantial holdings, Marcus Landsdowne had greedily wanted more. He'd thought nothing of Margaret's feelings, and the marriage had devastated her. Eric had been fighting on the Peninsula at the time and had been unaware of her situation.

  He'd been too late to rescue Margaret.

  But he'd vowed upon his return to help others like her, and bring attention to their plight. How many poor young women were forced into unwanted marriages each year? He shuddered to consider the number. He'd tried to convince Margaret to leave Darvin, promising he'd help her, but she'd refused to dishonor her marriage vows, and he had reluctantly honored her decision.

  Since first donning his costume five years ago, he'd helped more than a dozen young women escape. And by doing it with such dash and drama, rather than by quiet financial means, he'd succeeded in bringing the problem to national attention.

  He'd accomplished his goal, perhaps too well. Several months ago a reporter for The Times had dubbed him the Bride Thief, and now it seemed as if everyone in England hankered for information about him-most especially the magistrate who was determined to unmask the Bride Thief and put an end to what he called "the kidnappings."

  A substantial reward was offered for his capture, igniting interest in his activities even further. Arthur had recently reported a rumor that several irate fathers of "stolen" brides had banded together with the common goal of capturing the Bride Thief. Eric rubbed his fingers over his throat. The magistrate, not to mention the fathers, wouldn't be satisfied until the Thief hanged for his crimes.

  But Eric had no intention of dying.

  Still, the search for the Bride Thief's identity had now escalated to the point that each time Eric donned his costume he risked his life. But knowing he would free another poor woman from the untenable fate that had robbed Margaret of her happiness made the risk worth the possible price. And helped ease his guilt over failing to aid Margaret.

  He would not allow the heartache and despair that ruled his sister's life to destroy Miss Samantha Briggeham.

  He would free her.

  Samantha sat in the family coach, staring out the window at the fading light. Bright orange and purple streaks fanned across the sky, marking the beginning of twilight, her favorite time of day.

  Adjusting her spectacles, she breathed deeply and tried to calm her jittery stomach. When she arrived home, she faced speaking with Mama and Papa-not a welcome prospect as she suspected they would not be pleased by the errand on which she'd just been.

  Looking out the window, she observed a tiny flash of color in the waning light. Heavens, could that have been a firefly? If so, Hubert would be ecstatic. He'd been trying to breed the rare insects for months-both in the woods and in his laboratory-from larva he'd had shipped from the colonies. Could his experiments be bearing fruit?

  She quickly signaled Cyril to stop the coach, and pulled a small bag from her reticule. Her inner voice told her she was only delaying the inevitable argument with her parents, but she had to capture the insects for Hubert if they'd hatched. His fourteen-year-old mind was fascinated by the soft intermittent light the bugs exuded.

  Exiting the coach, she inhaled the cool evening air. The heavy scent of damp earth and decaying leaves tickled her nostrils, and she sneezed, sending her spectacles sliding downward until they halted on the upturned end of her nose. She pushed the glasses back into place with a practiced gesture and scanned the area, searching for the fireflies while Cyril settled back on his perch atop the coach to wait. He was well used to these unplanned stops in the woods.

  Sammie walked down the path toward where she'd seen the glow
. Warmth spread through her as she imagined Hubert's thin, serious face wreathed in smiles should she return with such a treasure. She loved the boy with all her heart-his brilliant, sharp mind and his tall, gangly frame with large, awkward feet he hadn't yet grown into.

  Yes, she and Hubert were cut from the same cloth. They wore similar spectacles and possessed the same blue eyes and thick, unruly chestnut hair. They both enjoyed swimming, fishing, and searching the forest for flora and fauna specimens-activities that had more than once driven Mama to the vapors. In fact, Samantha and Hubert's secret name for Mama was Cricket because she emitted a series of high-pitched chirps just before she "fainted"-always artistically-onto one of the many settees scattered strategically about the Briggeham home.

  Mama will most definitely chirp when she discovers where I've just been. And what I've done.

  Tiny flashes of yellow light caught her eye and her heart jumped with excitement. It was indeed fireflies! Several hovered near the ground at the base of an oak a short distance away.

  "No running off now, Miz Sammie," Cyril called as she moved toward the oak. " 'Tis gittin' dark and me eyes ain't what they used to be."

  "Don't worry, Cyril. There's still plenty of light and I'll not go farther than this." Dropping to her knees, she gentry captured the rare insect in her hand and placed it in her pouch.

  She'd just slipped another in the bag when a sound coming from the dense forest caught her attention. A horse's faint whinny? Lifting her head, she listened for several seconds but heard nothing more than the rustling of leaves from the breeze.

  "Did you hear something, Cyril?"

  Cyril shook his head. "Nay, but then, me ears ain't what they used to be."

  With a shrug, Sammie returned her attention to her task. Clearly she'd been mistaken.

  After all, who would be riding on her family's property? And with darkness swiftly approaching?

  Sitting astride Champion, he silently observed her through the trees. Pale streaks of moonlight glimmered down, and his heart clenched as he noted her posture.

  Bloody hell, the distraught chit was praying. On her knees, bent at the waist so far her nose was nearly skimming the ground. Anger and frustration heated his blood. Damn it, he would save her from such misery.

  Champion shifted beneath him and let out a soft whinny. Placing a comforting hand on the beast's sleek neck to quiet him, he watched Miss Briggeham. She clearly heard the sound, for she looked up. A shaft of waning light glinted off her spectacles as she glanced around. Then with what appeared to be a shrug, she lowered her head and resumed her prayers.

  He'd followed her through the woods, waiting while she was inside Major Wilshire's home, wondering why she'd visited him. Clearly their time together hadn't gone well, for now she was kneeling on the ground, praying in the woods as darkness approached. Pity tugged at his heart.

  He glanced at her coachman and noted the man was dozing in his perch. Excellent. The time had come.

  With quiet concentration, he slipped on his tight-fitting black mask, adjusting it until he knew his entire head was covered, except for his eyes and mouth. He tugged the material to settle two small openings over his nostrils. His long black cloak draped on the saddle behind him, and snug black leather gloves encased his hands. His black shirt, breeches, and boots rendered him all but invisible in the growing darkness.

  His gaze settled on the distressed girl kneeling at the base of the oak tree.

  Never fear, Miss Samantha Briggeham. Freedom awaits you.

  Chapter Two

  p›It happened as quickly as a lightning flash.

  Kneeling, gently cupping a firefly in her hand, Sammie lifted her head at the rustling in the nearby bushes. Without further warning, a black horse emerged from the trees, vaulting over a low hedge. Her heart nearly stalled with surprise, then fear flooded her as she realized the horse was headed straight for her.

  Springing to her feet, she stepped hastily backward. She caught the shadowy glimpse of a rider who clearly didn't see her as he veered in her direction. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but before she could issue so much as a peep, a strong arm scooped her off the ground.

  Her breath left her body in a loud whoosh and pain shot up her backside as she was deposited sideways on the saddle with a bone-jarring thud. Her glasses flew from her nose, and her bag of insects fell from her fingers. What appeared to be a bouquet of flowers sailed past her. Cyril's distressed voice cried out, "Miz Sammie!"

  The strong arm tightened around her like a vise, pinning her sideways to a large muscular frame as the horse raced into the woods. "Do not worry," a deep velvety whisper flavored with a faint Scottish brogue sounded in her ear. "Ye are perfectly safe."

  Speechless with shock, Sammie tried to move her arms, but her captor held them trapped to her sides with his own. Turning her head, she found herself staring at a black mask. Fear snaked down her spine and clogged her throat. What manner of madman was this? A highwayman? But if so, why had he taken her instead of simply demanding money?

  Realization slapped her. Dear God, was she being kidnapped! She shook her head to clear it. Logic labeled the idea utterly preposterous, but the fact that she was speeding through the night in the iron-clad grasp of a masked man certainly indicated an abduction. Why on earth would someone kidnap her? While her family was financially comfortable, they were not wealthy enough to pay an exorbitant ransom. Had he made a mistake and abducted the wrong woman? She didn't know, but she had to get away from him.

  Drawing as deep a breath as she could manage, Sammie opened her mouth to let loose with a scream. The sound had no sooner left her throat when the arm anchored around her middle tightened, cutting her cry into a mere wheeze.

  "Don't scream," he whispered against her ear. "I won't harm ye."

  Unconvinced, she opened her mouth again, but his lips pressed against her ear stopped her.

  "I don't want to stuff my handkerchief in your mouth, but I will if I must."

  Sammie reluctantly swallowed the scream trembling on her lips. Although she was not one to panic, she couldn't stop the alarm quivering through her. "I demand that you stop this horse and release me. Immediately."

  "Soon, lass."

  "You've made a mistake. My family cannot pay a ransom."

  "'Tis not a ransom I'm after." He leaned closer, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. "Fear not, Miss Briggeham. You're saved."

  Cold dread filled her. He knew her name. Clearly this was not a case of mistaken identity. But who was he? You're saved. Saved? What on earth was he talking about? God in heaven, he really must be insane.

  "How do you-?"

  "Quiet, please," he whispered. "We'll talk after we arrive at the cottage."

  Cottage? A fresh wave of fear rolled over her, but she forced herself to concentrate. Inhaling as deep as his binding arm would allow, she logically and quickly weighed her options. Obviously he couldn't be reasoned with, persuaded to release her. Did he mean to harm her? Anger edged some of her fear aside, and she pressed her lips together. If he had it in his mind to hurt her or force himself upon her, he'd have a devil of a fight on his hands.

  Escape. That's what she had to do. But how? The horse was running at full gallop. She attempted to wriggle a bit, but his muscular arm only tightened around her, pinching her ribs and expelling the air from her constricted lungs. Even if she managed to throw herself from the saddle-which judging by his strength would be impossible-the fall would no doubt kill her. At the very least injure her gravely. And then she'd be at his mercy.

  She pushed that disturbing thought aside with a resounding shove.

  Who on earth was he? She peered up at his masked face. Black material covered his entire head. There was a slit for his mouth, two small holes for his nostrils, and narrow oblong cutouts for his eyes. She squinted, trying to determine their color, but could not.

  Apprehension prickled her skin as she noted the power in his frame. Even through the layers of their clothin
g, there was no mistaking his hard muscles. His chest, pressed into her side, possessed all the flexibility of a brick wall. And the thighs cradling her felt like stone. He held her as if she were a doll in his grasp. There was no way she could physically overpower him.

  Unless she found a weapon and struck him over the head with it. A wave of grim satisfaction washed over her at the thought of rendering the brigand unconscious.

  Unfortunately she'd have to wait until they reached whatever destination he had in mind. But then she would escape him, either by outwitting him or coshing him.

  In the meanwhile, she forced herself to focus on her surroundings. They were traveling deep through the woods, but without her glasses, any landmarks she might have recognized were mere blurs. Glimmering shafts of moonlight filtered through the trees, but still the path was shrouded in darkness. Sammie wondered that he could even see, between the darkness and his mask.

  They traveled for nearly an hour, and try as she might, she could not determine where they were. His grip on her never relaxed, and she forced herself not to think about the strength of the masculine body pressed against her. Her backside felt bruised, and her arms tingled from lack of circulation caused by his tight hold on her.

  Finally he slowed their pace to a trot. Clearly they were approaching the cottage he'd mentioned, but without her spectacles, she couldn't see it in the darkness. She had no idea where they were and she wondered if he'd purposely ridden in circles to confuse her. Still, by the time he slowed the mount, she'd planned her strategy. It was simple, straightforward, and logical: get off the horse, find an object to cosh him with, commence coshing, get back on the horse, then find her way home.

  He pulled back on the reins, and the horse halted. Squinting, Sammie discerned the outline of a cottage. Still holding her, her captor dismounted and set her on her feet. Frustration suffused her when her watery knees threatened to buckle. If he hadn't retained his grasp on her upper arms, she would have slithered to the ground. How was she to attack the libertine if she couldn't even stand? Gritting her teeth, she locked her knees and prayed for the quick return of feeling in her numb limbs.