The Bride Thief

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  "Me?" Emily glared at her sister. "Why don't you go first?"

  Hermione turned to Lucille. "You've been married the longest, Lucille. You should have the first baby."

  "All right. Since you insist, I shall give birth before the year is finished."

  "Oh, but that's impossible," Emily scoffed. "It takes nine months and it's now already July."

  Lucille simply raised her brows, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. Realization dawned in Sammie and she gasped.

  "It's not impossible," Sammie said, looking at Lucille with wonder, "if she's already with child."

  Silence reigned for several seconds, then pandemonium broke loose as they all squealed in unison, laughing, crying, hugging, and talking all at once.

  "How long have you known?"

  "How are you feeling?"

  "You don't look like you're with child!"

  "Does Mama know?"

  Lucille laughed. "Heavens, slow down! I've known for several weeks, but I wanted to tell Richard first, and he didn't return from visiting his mother until yesterday."

  "Is that why you didn't go with him?" Hermie asked.

  Lucille nodded. "We suspected I might be with child, and we did not want to risk me taking such a long trip. The doctor confirmed our suspicions while Richard was away. As for the rest, I'm feeling marvelous and my condition will become obvious within the next several weeks. I told Mama the good news earlier today, but I made her promise not to tell you, as I wished to do so myself."

  Another round of hugs ensued, then Sammie sat back and listened to Emily and Hermione bombard Lucille with questions.

  A pang of longing resonated through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. How would it feel to carry the child of the man you loved inside your body, feeling it grow? A child you'd created together? Based on Lucille's radiant face, it was a beautiful, wondrous feeling.

  Having a child. How marvelous that it was the best news in the world for Lucille.

  How sad that it would be an utter disaster for her.

  For a moment her heart flooded with yearning for a loving husband and a child, but she ruthlessly pushed back such impossible desires into the deepest recesses of her soul. Her choices were to become a dried-up spinster or to pursue a passionate adventure-and now that she knew how to prevent pregnancy, there was nothing to stop her.

  Except Lord Wesley.

  But surely she could convince him.

  Couldn't she?

  Yes, by informing him in a logical manner of all the reasons they should enter into a liaison, coupled with the information she'd gleaned from her sisters, she would surely convince him.

  But just in case, she supposed it couldn't hurt to practice flirtatious looks in the mirror.

  Chapter Eleven

  From the London Times:

  The Bride Thief Posse reports that in order to cover more territory, they are allowing any man with a marriage-age daughter to join their ranks. Gentlemen seeking to join must make a monetary contribution to the reward offered for the Bride Thief's capture.

  All Sammie's plans regarding Lord Wesley went awry the next morning. Just as she finished her solitary breakfast-forced upon her by uncharacteristically oversleeping, which she attributed to a bit too much celebrating the evening before with her sisters;-Hubert dashed into the breakfast room. His footfalls thumping against the parquet floor set up an unholy pounding in her head, and she pressed her fingers to her temples in a feeble attempt to stem the throbbing.

  Before she could beg him to tiptoe, he thrust a wax-sealed envelope at her and said breathlessly, "This just arrived for you. 'Twas given to Cyril at the stables by a lad he'd never seen before."

  "Indeed?" Her name was neatly scripted on the front in an unfamiliar hand. "Who is it from?"

  "I don't know, but perhaps it's from him."

  Sammie stilled. "Him?"

  "Lord Wesley. Wouldn't it be grand if this were an invitation to use his Herschel again?"

  The hope shining behind Hubert's spectacles tugged at her heart. Setting the note on the table, she grasped both his hands and squeezed. Carefully choosing her words, she said, "You shouldn't set your heart on him inviting us back, Hubert. While he was very kind-"

  "Oh, but he told me I was welcome to return."

  "He did? When?"

  "When we left his home, as you settled yourself in the coach. He said he was sorry we had to leave so soon, especially since I clearly hadn't finished taking my notes. He said I was welcome to return any time to finish." A flush brightened his cheeks. "I'm anxious to do so, but I hesitate without him specifying a date and time."

  A lump settled in her throat, and she swallowed to clear it. "That was most generous of Lord Wesley."

  "He's a fine gentleman," Hubert agreed, his breathing returned to normal. "Even with his title and position, he was…" he shrugged his thin shoulders and averted his gaze.

  "Kind to us," Sammie said softly.

  Their eyes met and understanding flowed between them, two people more accustomed to ridicule than acceptance. His Adam's apple bobbed in his thin neck. "Yes. I think that's why I like him-besides him owning a Herschel. It's because he was nice to you."

  Dear Hubert. Heavens, could she love the boy any more than she already did? She squeezed his hands again and smiled at him. "What a coincidence. I like him because he was nice to vow."

  A lopsided grin pulled at one corner of his mouth. "Well, everyone says we think alike." He jerked his head toward the letter. "Are you going to read it?"

  "Of course," She reached for the missive while Hubert seated himself opposite her and spread strawberry jam on a thick slice of bread for a second breakfast. After breaking the envelope's wax seal, she withdrew two ivory vellum sheets.

  Dear Miss Briggeham,

  My name is Anne Barrow and I live in a small village about an hour's ride north of Tunbridge Wells. Although we've never met, I am writing to ask, nay plead, for your help. I have been so very desperate, you see. When word of your abduction by the Bride Thief reached my ears, I knew you were my last chance.

  My father has arranged for me to marry a man I loathe. I have begged and pleaded with Papa, but he refuses to listen. My betrothed is a cruel, ruthless man who has already tried to force himself upon me. In exchange for me, my betrothed will pay Papa's huge gambling debts. I am devastated that my own father would sell me like this. He will not stop gambling and drinking, and even though I do not wish debtor's prison on him, I cannot marry this man. Papa made his choice, and now I must make mine.

  Please, Miss Briggeham, you are the only person who can help me. I've nowhere else to turn. My mother is dead, and I have no relatives other than Papa. Can you contact the Bride Thief and tell him how desperately I need his help? I greatly fear there is little chance that the Bride Thief would hear of my plight on his own as Papa has kept the betrothal quiet, perhaps in fear of a rescue actually taking place. I will go anywhere, do anything, to escape the nightmare my life will become if I am forced to wed this man. I would attempt to contact the Bride Thief myself, but Papa has gone so far as to lock me in my room, and even if I were free, I would not know how to reach the man. I am praying that this note even reaches you.

  I am scheduled to travel to my betrothed's home two nights from now. Enclosed is a map I have drawn of the exact route my coach will take. Please, I beg of you to pass this information on to the Bride Thief so he will know how to find me. I realize this is a great deal for a stranger to ask, but I would not impose myself upon you if I were not desperate. Please help me save my life.

  Forever in your debt.

  Anne Barrow

  A second sheet contained the drawing of the coach's route. Sammie laid the papers on the table and drew a shaky breath.

  Hubert's eyes clouded with concern. "I say, Sammie, you're white as chalk. What's wrong? Is the note from Lord Wesley?"

  "No." Wordlessly she pushed the letter across the table to Hubert, knowing she could never con
vince him nothing was amiss.

  Hubert scanned the contents, then looked at her over the rim of the vellum, his blue eyes wide behind his spectacles. "Upon my word, this is dreadful."

  "Indeed it is. I must help this poor girl." Rising, she paced the length of the breakfast room. "It is imperative that I get this information to the Bride Thief. But how?"

  Hubert rose and paced along with her, on the opposite side of the long mahogany table. "If we could find the cottage he brought you to, perhaps we could leave him a message there. I examined some hair and leaf samples I removed from your clothing the morning after your abduction, but-"

  Sammie stopped pacing and stared at him. "You did what?"

  Color rushed into his thin cheeks. "I was looking for evidence as to his identity. Unfortunately all I was able to determine was what you'd already said: he rode a black horse, and you'd traveled through the woods."

  "But why would you wish to know his identity? Surely you wouldn't be trying to collect the reward offered for his capture?"

  "Of course not. Although I wouldn't hesitate if he'd hurt you in any way. No, I quite agree with you that the man is noble and is fighting a just cause. I merely wished to match my wits against his." A sheepish grin curved his lips. "You know I cannot ignore an unsolved puzzle."

  "Indeed I do, but in this case you must." Setting her palms on the table, she leaned toward him. "Not only might pursuing the answer prove dangerous for you, but for him as well. Once his identity is known, his life is over. And you might be hurt in the process."

  Hubert reached out and patted her hand. "Not to worry, Sammie. I simply conducted a few experiments in the Chamber, and they amounted to nothing. And even if I learned his identity, I wouldn't tell the magistrate."

  She read the earnestness in his gaze and nodded. Resuming her pacing, she said, "About finding the cottage-it's a good suggestion, but it could take weeks, months, to locate, assuming we'd even be successful. It was dark, and without my glasses, I lost all sense of direction. No, we must think of something else." Tapping her fingers against her chin, she continued to pace. "Let's apply logic to this. We need for the Bride Thief to find out about this girl's plight. How does he find out about the upcoming marriages of any woman he rescues?"

  Hubert frowned and nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, how does he? Seems unlikely that he would personally know all of them."

  "Precisely. And how did he find out about me? How did he know I did not want to marry Major Wilshire? My betrothal had not yet been announced, and even Mama wouldn't risk gossiping about it before it was formally agreed upon."

  They both paused, staring at each other across the table.

  "Then there's only one way-" Hubert said.

  "It must have been through-"

  "The servants' gossip grapevine," they said in unison.

  Sammie clasped her hands together. "Yes, that's the only logical explanation. I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

  "Most likely because you weren't trying to figure out a way to contact your abductor."

  Snatching up the letter and the map, Sammie rounded the table. "The gossip could only have started in our household or Major Wilshire's." She drummed her fingers on the table, her mind racing. "I must immediately spread word of this girl's plight to the servants. Here at home, and at Major Wilshire's residence. There's not a moment to lose if we hope for the news to reach the Bride Thief in time."

  "I'll visit at the Major's," Hubert offered. "I share an acquaintance with his coachman's son. But Sammie, what if the magistrate hears the gossip and sets a trap to catch the Bride Thief?"

  "We shall do our best to contain the rumor to the two households… and pray we're successful. 'Tis a dangerous plan, but the Bride Thief is clever, and we must try to help this girl."

  "And what if word doesn't reach the Bride Thief in time?"

  She clutched the letter in her hands, her heart aching for Anne Barrow. She well understood the poor girl's desperation. "I was fortunate that I was able to extricate myself from an unwanted marriage, but so many women cannot do so. If the Bride Thief can't help her, then we must devise another plan."

  "How?"

  A frown pulled her brows. "I'm not certain, but I'll think of something."

  With Hubert on his way to Major Wilshire's home, Sammie sought out Mama, who could spread gossip faster than weeds grew in the sunshine. After telling her mother of Anne Barrow's plight, she visited the kitchen and shared the news with Sarah, the cook. Confident that the entire household would know within the hour, she donned her shawl and bonnet. On her way to the village for her daily visit, she paused at the stables to tell Cyril the story.

  She spent several hours visiting with Miss Waynesboro-Paxton. Sammie read to her from a well-worn edition of Sense and Sensibility, then massaged the aging woman's stiff hands with honey cream. After enjoying a restorative cup of tea, she took her leave, anxious to return home and find out how Hubert had fared at the Major's house.

  Walking home with the late-afternoon sun angling through the trees, she offered up a prayer that her plan would work and word of Anne Barrow's forced marriage would reach the Bride Thief's ears-and not the magistrate's. By purposely spreading the rumor, she was straddling a tense line between possibly endangering the Bride Thief and trying to secure freedom for a desperate woman. But critical situations called for desperate measures.

  Of course, it was highly likely that word would not reach the Bride Thief in time to help Miss Barrow. She did not doubt for a moment that he would rescue her if he knew of her plight, but he could not rescue her if he didn't know. She had to ensure that Miss Barrow was freed from her upcoming marriage. But how?

  An image of the dashing Bride Thief flashed in her mind, and an idea slammed into her with a lightning-like jolt. Her footsteps halted and she quickly turned the idea over, mentally weighing, measuring it from every angle. It was terribly risky, but a woman's life was at stake. Her mind warned her that a hundred things could go wrong.

  Her heart told her one thing could go right. Miss Barrow would be free.

  If the Bride Thief did not show up to rescue Miss Barrow, then Sammie would rescue her herself.

  Eric alternated his gaze between Emperor, who grazed near the lake, and the path leading through the woods from the village. Pulling his watch fob from his waistcoat pocket, he frowned at the timepiece. Damn, had he missed her? It seemed unlikely, as he'd been waiting for over an hour. Perhaps she had not walked to the village today. Perhaps she was ill-

  The cracking of a twig snapped his attention back to the path. When he caught sight of her, he released a breath he hadn't realized he held, a fact that annoyed him. The sudden leap his heart performed, further annoyed him. Bloody hell, he was behaving like a wet-behind-the-ears schoolboy. Standing in the woods, holding ajar of honey like a besotted fool. You are a besotted fool, his inner voice informed him.

  Clenching his jaw, he banished his irritating-not to mention incorrect-inner voice to perdition. He wasn't besotted. He was merely…

  His brows collapsed in a frown. He didn't know what the hell he was. Other than inexplicably irritated. At himself for wanting her. At her for looking so utterly…

  Samantha-like.

  If he weren't feeling so unsettled, he would have laughed at himself when desire hit him low and hard at the sight of her modest blue gown and shawl. She walked briskly along the path with her purposeful strides, her lips pursed and brows pulled down as if in deep thought. She swung her bonnet from its ribbons as if it were a reticule, and her shiny hair appeared more disheveled than usual. With an unconscious gesture, she pushed her spectacles higher on her nose-certainly not an action that should have pumped heat through his veins. But it instantly brought to mind an image of him slipping off her glasses and losing himself in her beautiful eyes.

  A grunt escaped him, and he ran a hand over his face. He shouldn't have come here. Shouldn't have waited for her. Why in blazes had he? Because you couldn't stay away.


  His annoyance level notched up another step at the undeniable truth. But how the hell was he supposed to stay away from a woman who fascinated him? Charmed him? And all without an ounce of artifice or coyness or even effort on her part? A woman who wished to become his lover? He didn't know, but clearly lying in wait for her in the forest was not the way to dismiss her from his thoughts.

  He'd simply give her the jar of honey. This was an errand of honor. He'd promised her the honey and give it to her he would. Then he'd immediately remove himself from her distracting presence. Yes, that was an excellent plan.

  When she was only a few yards away, he stepped from beneath the low-hanging willow leaves, onto the path.

  She halted and gasped. "Good heavens, Lord Wesley, you startled me."

  "Forgive me. I did not mean to."

  The most deafening silence he'd ever heard stretched between them. She twisted her bonnet ribbons between her fingers, clearly waiting for him to speak, but it was as if her presence rendered him witless. He simply looked at her, his question from yesterday echoing through his mind. Do you have any idea how close I came to making love to you? And her heartstopping reply. Do you have any idea how much I wanted you to? Good God, how had he managed to let her walk away?

  Finally she cleared her throat. "Well, it was lovely seeing you again, my lord. If you'll excuse me…" She inclined her head then started to move around him.

  He caught her arm as she passed him. "Wait. I wanted to give you this." He held out the jar of honey. "You forgot it the other evening."

  A blush stained her cheeks, and he wondered if she was thinking about the heated kiss they'd shared after he'd given her the honey at his home.

  She took the jar from him. "Thank you. I'll see to it that Mr. Timstone receives his cream. And now if you'll excuse me…" She tried to pull her arm away, but his fingers flexed, keeping her in place.