"Damnation, did I hurt ye, lass?" His husky whisper held a note of concern that surprised her. Before she could answer, he swept her up in his arms and carried her toward the cottage. "Shouldn't have held ye so snug, but I couldn't have ye falling. Let's get ye inside and take a look at ye."
Sammie silently swore that if he tried to take a look at her, she'd poke his eyes out. She wanted to pummel him with her fists, but to her infinite disgust, her arms possessed all the strength of porridge. However, tingles pulsed up her limbs, prickling her skin, a sure indication that feeling would soon return.
Perhaps it was best if he thought her weak and defenseless. That would surely lower his guard. Then she could find something inside the cottage to use as a weapon-a nice sharp knife or fire poker-and escape this fiend.
He opened the cottage door and entered, pushing it closed behind them with his foot. A low fire burned in the grate, casting the small room with a pale golden glow. Sammie looked around and her heart sank.
The room was empty. No furniture, no rugs, and nothing resembling a weapon.
His boots clicked against the wood floor as he crossed to the fireplace. Her gaze ran over the mantel, hoping to spy a candlestick, but like the rest of the room, the mantel was bare. Hope leapt through her when her blurry vision locked on what looked like a set of brass fireplace tools propped against the wall on the opposite side of the fireplace. Too far for her to reach, but she'd figure out some way to grab one. All she needed to do was bide her time.
Her captor knelt, lowering her to the floor near the fire with a gentleness that surprised her. The instant he released her, she scooted backwards until her back hit the wall.
"Stay away from me," she ordered, proud that her voice didn't quaver. "Don't touch me."
He went completely still. Sammie stared at him, wishing mightily for her spectacles so she could see him more clearly. Although she could barely make out his eyes between the slits in his mask, she felt the weight of his steady stare.
"You've nothing to fear from me, Miss Briggeham. I wish only to help ye-"
"Help me? By kidnapping me? By holding me against my will?"
"Not against your will." Bowing his head, he said in a husky rasp, "Rejoice, lass. 'Tis the Bride Thief, come to rescue ye."
Eric watched Miss Briggeham through the slits in his mask and waited for relief and joy to replace the apprehension shadowing her eyes.
Miss Briggeham regarded him with a blank stare. "Bride Thief? Rescue?"
Poor woman. She was clearly dumbstruck with gratitude. "Why, yes. I'm here to help ye start a new life… a life of freedom. I know ye've no wish to marry Major Wilshire."
Her eyes widened. "What do you know of Major Wilshire?"
"I know he is your betrothed, and that ye are being forced to marry him."
Her expression immediately changed, and unmistakable annoyance streaked across her face. "I've had quite enough of people telling me I am engaged." Straightening her spine, she pointed her finger at him, punctuating each word. "Major Wilshire is not my betrothed, and I am not going to marry him."
Eric froze, unease creeping down his spine. Not her betrothed? Damn it all, had he taken the wrong woman? Is that why she wasn't leaping about with joy that he'd rescued her?
His gaze slid over her, taking in her disheveled appearance. Her bonnet hung from her neck by its ribbons. Dark hair surrounded her face in wild disarray, several strands sticking straight upward in a way that reminded him of devil's horns-not a happy comparison under the circumstances. Her eyes appeared huge in her face-a plain, pale face that currently bore an expression of clear displeasure. Definitely not a look he was accustomed to seeing on the faces of the women he rescued.
"Are ye not Samantha Briggeham?" he asked.
She glared at him and squeezed her lips together.
Damn stubborn woman. He leaned closer to her and ignored the twinge of guilt when her eyes flickered with fright. "Answer the question. Are ye Samantha Briggeham?"
She nodded stiffly. "I am."
Confusion assailed him. He had the right woman. Bloody hell, had Arthur's information been incorrect? If so, Eric had made a terrible error. Forcing himself to remain calm, he studied her carefully. "I understood your father had arranged for ye to marry the Major."
She watched him through wary eyes. "Indeed he had, but as I'd never heard of a more unappealing, not to mention idiotic, plan in my entire life, I unarranged what my well-meaning but ill-advised father arranged."
Eric's unease tripled. "I beg your pardon?"
"I visited Major Wilshire this evening and explained that, while I hold him in high esteem, I have no wish to marry him."
"And he agreed?"
She averted her gaze, and a crimson blush stole over her cheeks. " Er, yes. Eventually."
Eric's hands fisted in his gloves at her clearly embarrassed reaction. Damn it, had the Major attempted to take liberties with her? "Eventually?"
She squinted up at him for several seconds, then shrugged. "Not that it's any of your concern, but even after explaining in the politest of ways that I didn't want to marry him, I'm afraid the Major was still rather… insistent."
By God, the reprobate clearly had touched her. Feeling totally out of his element, Eric raised his hands to rake his fingers through his hair, only to encounter his masked head.
She cleared her throat. "Fortunately for me, however, no sooner had the Major finished his long-winded 'you-most-certainly-will-marry-me, the-arrangements-have-already-been-made' speech, then Isadore appeared. He quite saved the day."
A breath he hadn't even realized he held, escaped Eric. "Isadore? He's your coachman?"
"No. Cyril is my coachman. Isadore is my toad."
Eric knew that if his mask wasn't so tight, his jaw would have dropped. "Your toad saved the day?"
"Yes. Isadore likes to nestle in my reticule and accompany me on coach rides. I'd quite forgotten about him until he hopped out and landed right on one of the Major's highly polished Hessians. Heavens, never have I witnessed such a fuss. Anyone would have thought he'd been stripped of his rank the way he carried on. Amazing how a man who claims such acts of military bravery could harbor such fear and aversion to a toad." She shook her head. "Of course, seeing as he objected so strenuously to Isadore, I thought it best to warn him about Cuthbert and Warfinkle."
Bemused, Eric asked, "More toads?"
"No. A mouse and a garden snake. Both perfectly harmless, but Major Wilshire turned quite pale, especially when I hinted that I housed them in my bedchamber."
Half-amused, half-horrified, Eric asked, "Do you?"
There was no mistaking the sheepishness in the myopic glance she sent him. "No, but then I only hinted that I did. Surely I cannot be held accountable for any incorrect assumptions the Major may make, do you not agree?"
"Indeed. What happened next?"
"Well, as I chased Isadore about the room, in a fashion the Major later described as 'appalling and unladylike,' I deemed it only fair to share with him some of my other hobbies."
"Such as?"
"Singing. I raised my voice in what I thought was a particularly well-done rendition of 'Barbara Allen,' but I'm afraid the Major found my voice less than adequate. I believe 'dreadful' is the word he muttered under his breath. He appeared quite alarmed when I informed him that I sing every day, for at least several hours.
"And he grew even more alarmed when I told him about my plans to convert his drawing room into a laboratory. Really, he raised an incredible fuss, even after I assured him that the few times my experiments had resulted in fires, the flames had been doused very quickly and with almost no damage at all."
Bloody hell, the chit was a menace. But undeniably clever. "Dare I wonder what came next?"
"Isadore, who was proving quite impossible to catch, saw fit to jump onto the Major's lap. Goodness, I never would have suspected the Major possessed such… agility. By the time I captured Isadore and restored him to my reticule, then coax
ed the Major down from the pianoforte, the gentleman was quite willing to concede that we would not suit." Her expression turned fierce. "I was returning from his house, intent upon telling my parents of the dissolution of my betrothal, when you so rudely absconded with me. Perhaps now you would care to explain yourself?"
Momentarily robbed of speech, Eric's mind raced with the unholy mess he'd landed himself in. He rose to his feet and stared down at her. Unmistakable apprehension flickered in her eyes, and she scooted farther into the corner, an action that annoyed him further.
"Stop looking at me as if I'm a bloody murderer about to hack ye to pieces," he uttered in a husky growl. "I told ye, I won't hurt ye. I was trying to help ye. I'm the man they call the Bride Thief."
"So you've said, and in a tone that suggests I should know you, but I'm afraid I don't."
Eric stared at her, completely nonplussed. Surely he'd misheard her. "Ye've never heard of the Bride Thief?"
"I'm afraid not, but apparently you must be he." She looked him up and down twice, and his skin actually heated under her scathing stare. "I cannot say I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."
"Saints above, lass. Don't ye ever read a newspaper?"
"Certainly. I read all the articles pertaining to nature and scientific matters."
"And the Society pages?"
"I do not waste my time reading such drivel." Her distasteful expression clearly stated that she found him sadly lacking if his name could be found only in the Society columns.
Sheer disbelief rendered him speechless. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. How could she not know about the Bride Thief? Did the chit dwell in a dungeon? Not a day went by when the Bride Thief wasn't discussed in London's clubs, at Almack's, in country pubs, and written about in every publication in the kingdom.
Yet Miss Samantha Briggeham had never heard of him.
Well, bloody hell.
If he wasn't so confounded by the realization, he would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation-and at his own conceit. Clearly he wasn't quite as notorious as he'd believed.
His amusement quickly vanished, however, when he realized the gravity of his error. Miss Briggeham was not being forced into marriage. He'd nabbed a woman who did not need his assistance. And now the Bride Thief would have to do something he'd never done before.
Return a woman he'd rescued.
A woman who was squinting toward the fire poker with a gleam in her eye that indicated she'd like to see it wrapped around his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment and silently cursed his rotten luck.
Damn it all, sometimes being England's Most Notorious Man was a bloody pain in the arse.
Chapter Three
"What do you mean you're not marrying my daughter?"
Cordelia Briggeham stood in her drawing room and stared at Major Wilshire in her most imperious manner, somehow resisting the urge to beat the arrogant soldier with her lace fan.
The Major stood ramrod stiff next to the fireplace and looked down his long nose at Cordelia. "As I stated, Miss Briggeham and I mutually agreed earlier this evening that a marriage between us is inadvisable. I was certain she'd have told you by now."
"She's told me no such thing."
The color drained from the Major's florid face. "Egad, surely the chit doesn't claim we're still betrothed?"
Cordelia was certain she detected a shudder run through the Major's large frame. Then he glanced down at his Hessians and wrinkled his nose. Such odd behavior. Perhaps the man was daft.
"My daughter has made no claims of any kind, Major. I've not seen her nor spoken to her since dinner." She turned to her husband, who sat in his favorite wing chair in the corner. "Charles, have you spoken to Samantha this evening?"
When silence greeted her question, Cordelia pursed her lips and for the second time in minutes considered coshing a man. Men. They were going to be the very death of her. "Charles!"
Charles Briggeham's head snapped up as if she'd jabbed him with a stick. His glazed eyes clearly indicated he'd been dozing. "Yes, Cordelia?"
"Has Samantha discussed her betrothal with you this evening?"
"There is no longer a betrothal…" Major Wilshire's voice trailed off when Cordelia shot him her most glacial glare.
"Haven't seen Sammie since dinner," Charles said. He turned to the Major. "Excellent pot roast, Major. You should have-"
"What have you to say about the Major's outrageous claim, Charles?" Cordelia cut in.
Charles blinked rapidly. "Claim?"
"That he and Samantha are no longer engaged?"
"Rubbish. I heard nothing of the sort." Charles turned toward the Major with a frown. "What's this about? All the arrangements are in place."
"Yes, well, that was before Miss Briggeham paid me a visit this evening."
"She did no such thing," Cordelia stated, praying she was correct. Lord, what sort of mess had Sammie conjured up now?
"She most certainly did. Told me she didn't think we made a good match. After some, er, discussion, I agreed with her assessment of the situation and took appropriate action." The Major cleared his throat. "To put it bluntly, the wedding is off."
Cordelia eyed the sofa and decided it was too far away for her to properly swoon. Damnation.
No wedding? Lud, this presented a ticklish mess. Not only might there be a scandal depending on what Sammie had done to dissuade the Major, but Cordelia could just hear that odious Lydia Nordfield once she got wind of this debacle. Why Cordelia, Lydia would say, batting her eyes like a cow in a hailstorm, how tragic that Sammie's no longer betrothed. Viscount Carsdale has shown an interest in my Daphne, you know. And Daphne is so very lovely. It seems like I'll have all my daughters married before you do!
Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut to banish the horrible scenario. Sammie was worth ten of that vapid Daphne, and Cordelia's blood all but boiled at the injustice of it all. Daphne, whose sole talents lay in swishing a fan and giggling, would capture a viscount simply because she possessed an attractive face. While Sammie would remain on-the-shelf, forcing Cordelia to listen to Lydia harp about it for the next twenty years. Oh, it was simply not to be borne!
She'd arranged for Sammie to marry a perfectly respectable gentleman-and now Major Wilshire thought he was going to ruin all her plans? Humph. We shall see about that.
Tightening her jaw, Cordelia inched closer to the sofa in case she needed to employ it, then turned her attention back to the Major. "How can a man who calls himself honorable disgrace my daughter in such a way?"
Charles rose and tugged on his waistcoat. "Indeed, Major. This is most irregular. I demand an explanation."
"I've already explained, Briggeham. There will be no wedding." He fixed a steely stare on Cordelia. "You, madam, led me astray when describing your daughter."
"I did no such thing," Cordelia said with her most elegant sniff. "I informed you how intelligent Samantha is, and you well knew she wasn't fresh from the schoolroom."
"You neglected to mention her fondness for slimy toads and other assorted vermin, her predilection for crawling about on the floor, her frightening lack of musical talent, and her habit of setting up laboratories and starting fires."
Cordelia made a beeline for the sofa. Emitting two breathy, chirp-like oohs, she dropped down in a graceful swoon. "What a dreadful thing to say! Charles, my hartshorn!"
Waiting for the hartshorn, Cordelia's mind raced. Ye gods, the Major must have met Isadore, Cuthbert, and Warfinkle. Of all the rotten luck! Oh, Sammie, why couldn't you have simply brought along a book? And what was this about crawling about on the floor? Of course, she'd known the lack of musical talent and the laboratory situations could prove troublesome, but whatever did he mean about starting fires? Great heavens above, what outrageous tales had Sammie told the man?
Heaving a sigh, she wondered what was taking Charles so long with the hartshorn. There was much to be done to remedy this debacle-she couldn't lay about on the sofa all night.
>
"Here you are, my dear." Charles waved the hartshorn under her nostrils with an enthusiasm that brought tears to her eyes.
Pushing herself upright, Cordelia thrust his hand away. "That's quite enough, Charles. The idea was to revive me, not put me in the grave." Settling her features into her most forbidding frown, she glared at the Major. "Now see here, Major. You cannot-"
The study door burst open and a wild-eyed Cyril rushed into the room. "Missus Briggeham! Mr. Briggeham! 'Tis the most awful thing wot's 'appened."
"Good God, man, I can see that," Charles said, taking in the coachman's disheveled appearance. "Your cravat's completely unraveled and you're sporting grass stains on your breeches. And are those twigs in your hair? Why, you're completely undone. Whatever has happened to put you in such a state?"
Cyril attempted to catch his breath, then mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's Miz Sammie, sir." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "She's… gone."
"Gone?" Charles asked with a puzzled frown. "You mean from the house?"
"Yes, sir. On returning from her visit to the Major-"
"Ooh! Ooh! It's true, then," Cordelia chirped, swooning back onto the sofa. "My baby! She's ruined!"
"No, Missus Briggeham. She's kidnapped," Cyril intoned, bowing his head.
Cordelia jumped to her feet. "Kidnapped? Oh, you're daft. Why would you think such a ridiculous thing? Who on earth would kidnap Sammie? And why?"
For an answer, Cyril held out a bouquet of flowers.
Cordelia fought the urge to roll her eyes. "That's very sweet, Cyril, but this is not the time for posies."
"No, Missus Briggeham. This 'ere's wot the kidnapper gave me. Tossed it to me, 'e did, right after he plucked Miz Sammie up like a weed from where she were gatherin' insects for Master Hubert, and raced off with 'er on a big black 'orse." He handed her the flowers. "There's a note attached."
The Bride Thief Page 3