by Darcy Burke
“Rob,” he called ahead to his friend.
Rob stopped and waited for Fox to come up beside him.
Fox reached back and untied the bag of money. “Here, take this back to Bassett Manor.”
Rob took the bag. “We’re awfully close to Birch House. What are you about, man?”
“I’m taking your advice.” He gripped his reins in apprehension. How did one go about compromising a woman? Simply climb into her room and declare himself? Wait for her to come out for her nightly stroll and then raise the hue and cry?
Rob chuckled. “Good luck to you, then.” Raising his hand in farewell, he took himself off.
Fox led Icarus around the back, dismounted, and tethered him to a tree. Stealing across the disappointingly empty yard, he studied the building. Which room was hers? He’d only been to Birch House a couple of times and had never been on the upper floors.
He paused, sheltering himself next to a tree. What the hell was he about? A compromise required something scandalous. But didn’t it also require someone witnessing the scandal? Who would witness anything at this hour? The house was completely dark. He’d have to make a commotion.
But I’m dressed as the bloody highwayman. He glanced down at his clothes. The highwayman couldn’t compromise her. Montgomery Foxcroft had to do it.
His body stopped in mid-motion—one hand palm down against the tree, his torso turned toward the house, his feet ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
Indecision battled opportunity. He was here. Dressed as the bandit. She liked the bandit. She’d kissed the bandit. He could steal into her room, perhaps steal another kiss or two, and depart before anyone was the wiser. Or, he could remove his mask, kiss her as Montgomery Foxcroft and bind her to him forever.
Put like that, he had nothing to lose.
Fox raised his hand to his mask and froze as the back door of the house swung open.
Chapter Eight
MIRANDA stopped short on the small landing outside the back door. Though dark enough for her eyes to deceive her, she felt certain someone stood not twenty feet away.
Reason told her to turn around, but reason was vastly overrated. Besides, the nape of her neck tingled with anticipation. Somehow she knew who lingered in the yard. She stepped into the soft grass. “Who’s there?”
“You promised we would meet again. I got tired of waiting.”
The highwayman.
He sauntered toward her, pausing a few feet away.
The cool night breeze stirred her hair. Miranda brushed a stray lock from her face. “Have you been skulking about the back entrances of every house in the district, or did you somehow know to find me here?”
“I have ways of finding what I need.” He leaned against a small pear tree not far from the stairs she’d just descended into the yard.
Miranda heard the smile in his voice. Go inside, her mind screamed. But other, less sensible parts of her body drove her forward until she stood before him. He wore the same dark clothes he’d worn the night of the robbery. A mask covered his entire head, save his mouth and chin. Pity, for she dearly wanted to see his face.
“Did you say need?”
“Mmm. I did.” His deep voice sounded husky, alluring. He stepped closer and she could feel the warmth of his body. “You seem in a precarious position. I couldn’t help but overhear that man berating you after we first met. What is your relationship to him?”
Her throat went dry. “He’s my jailer.” The words came out croaky. The highwayman laughed. A deep, cleansing sound of mirth that made Miranda smile, but she quickly sobered. “You risk a great deal coming here.”
“Perhaps some things are worth any risk.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, his finger tracing along her sensitive flesh. Shivers of anticipation raced down her arms, through her belly, along her thighs.
She pulled her dressing gown tighter against the chill night air. So many nights she’d walked in the garden, and she’d never considered she might encounter someone. Let alone her highwayman.
“It’s cold.” The highwayman pulled his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. Immediately, she was ensconced in delicious heat. A fresh, earthy scent, something infinitely masculine enveloped her. Recognition tickled the back of her mind. She had to be recalling their first meeting.
“But now you’re cold.”
He reached out and pulled her against him, his arms encircling her back. His legs were parted and he positioned her between them. “Now, I am not.”
She swallowed with difficulty. She should rip his cloak off and run back into the house, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but gaze up into his masked face. Her flirtation with the highwayman was reckless, dangerous, forbidden. A thrill shot up her spine.
Miranda tipped her head back. Her highwayman was rather tall. “Have you come to ransom me? If you knew where to find me, perhaps you know about my family, too.”
His hands held her close. “I know you’ve been deprived your usual comforts. And, forgive me for saying, but your usual comforts are more luxury than people like me will ever see. It didn’t occur to me to ransom you, but that is an excellent notion.”
She ignored the last, for it seemed to have been said in humor. “And what ‘people’ are you like, then?”
He chuckled, low and soft in the darkness. She pressed closer.
He dipped his head and said against her ear, “I prefer not to classify myself.”
Her heart beat a staccato rhythm in her chest. “If you aren’t here to take me away, why have you come?”
“For another kiss, perhaps.” His warm breath caressed her temple.
Miranda shivered. “I should go back.”
His lips brushed her cheek. The rough cotton of his mask grazed the side of her face, her ear. “I won’t stop you.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders, opening the cloak, leaving less between them. He removed his hands from her back and put them against her neck, caressing her, drawing her closer. And then his mouth touched hers, and her knees went weak. She gripped him tighter, moving her hands behind his neck, holding onto him lest she tumble to the earth.
Her frustration and loneliness—yes, loneliness she now realized—faded in his kiss. Where she’d been bold during their previous encounter, she let him lead her, content to do his will. One of his hands cupped the back of her head as his lips parted over hers. His tongue swept against her, and she opened for him, welcomed him inside.
His kiss deepened, his hands holding her firm, steady, captive. Her head dropped back under his onslaught. Yes, command me. Desire pulsed through her body, throbbed between her thighs. Make me yours.
He trailed kisses along her jaw. Finding her earlobe, he nipped it, eliciting a shudder of longing that seemed to make her body curl in upon itself. His right hand tangled in her hair while his left coasted over her shoulder and settled just above her breast, the warmth of his bare palm heating her flesh through the thin cotton of her nightrail.
She did falter then, slumping against him with a faint moan. He turned with her, pushing her back against the pear tree. His hand moved down her body, cradled her hip, pulled her against his hardness.
She tugged at the fabric covering most of his face. “Won’t you take off your mask?”
He shook his head against her neck, as he kissed and licked a path back to her mouth.
She pleaded, “I won’t give you away.”
“Shhh.” He kissed her, his mouth open, slanting across hers, devouring any response she might have given.
She arched against him, and his hand moved between them once more. He found her breast, her nipple hardening against his palm. His fingers closed around her, and she gasped into his mouth.
A thump from the house froze their movements. He stood straight, breathed against her forehead.
She pushed his cloak from her shoulders and thrust it at him. “You have to go.”
He looked at the house as if he were waiting for someone.
“I can’t be caught out here with you. Not again! Please go!” She shoved at him, and finally he stepped back.
She pivoted and hurried to the house. At the door she turned to see if he remained.
His silhouette was recognizable next to the tree. “Until next time, then.”
She stepped inside and pulled the door shut. There couldn’t be a next time.
NEARLY a week had passed since the highwayman’s visit to Birch House, but Miranda could still feel his hands on her body, still longed for his kiss. For the hundredth time, she bade herself focus on teaching the dance to the children. Between Miranda’s flights of fancy and the boys’ lack of interest and grace, today’s lesson was a mess.
“Ow!” Beatrice hobbled off the makeshift dance floor, precisely where Miranda had waltzed with Fox several weeks ago. They danced in the library since Fox had deemed the hall too hazardous.
“Sorry, Miss Carmody.” David, the oldest boy at Stipple’s End, studied the floor sheepishly.
Now one of her dancers was wounded. First, there had been strife over who partnered whom, a process that had taken far too long. Then the girls had pouted over not learning the waltz before The Touchstone. Who could have foreseen dancing would be Miranda’s toughest challenge?
Beatrice sat in the green chair by the fireplace and reached down to massage her foot. “Continue on without me.”
Miranda nodded and turned back to the children who were still assembled in their positions. David and Beatrice had been leading, but now David merely stood there looking perplexed.
“Take a seat, David.” Miranda waved at the settee. This left six couples on the floor.
“Why don’t you dance with him, Lady Miranda?” Lisette asked.
“It’s too difficult to direct all of you if I have to do the steps myself.” It was too difficult to direct them even when she wasn’t dancing.
“Aw, I’m tired of dancing. Can’t we be done?” Bernard threw himself onto the settee next to David, and the rest of the boys broke their formation.
“No, wait!” Miranda held her hands up and tried to beckon them back. Coaxing some of the boys to participate had been difficult, but Mrs. Gates had promised lightened chores if they were agreeable. “We are almost through The Touchstone, and then we will be done for the day.”
Several of the boys pulled faces while others simply stared blankly, as if they were too tired to continue. She let her hands drop. Though she hated not finishing, it was probably for the best.
Flora’s face fell. “But you said we could waltz!”
Miranda hated disappointing the girls, but more than one dance was really too much to expect from the boys. Actually, just one dance had proven too much. “I never promised.” She’d been noncommittal, adopting one of her mother’s favorite methods. We’ll see, was an excellent tactic, she had to grudgingly admit.
Bernard shuddered. “I don’t want to waltz anyway. Don’t you have to touch their waists?”
David and another boy looked at the floor, their ears turning red. As they were the eldest, Miranda wasn’t surprised they wanted to touch a girl’s waist—and probably more if given the chance.
“We’ll have to waltz another day, then.” Truthfully, Miranda hoped she’d leave before trying to teach dancing again. But they’d be so disappointed…regret twisted in her chest.
Delia approached Miranda. “Can’t you at least demonstrate the waltz for us?”
Though tired and frustrated, Miranda bent beneath the girl’s pleading gaze. “With whom? Beatrice? She’s hurt her foot. No, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to wait for another day.”
“You could dance with Mr. Foxcroft,” Delia suggested.
Every head in the room swiveled toward the door. She spun around. Fox leaned against the doorframe. He arched a brow, and she couldn’t determine his reaction at being called out like that.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to see that the instruction of dance may not be your forte.”
She arched a brow at him in challenge. “And you think you could do better? The children have asked for a waltz demonstration, if you are so inclined.”
“I’m willing to give it a go. Though I’m not wearing the right shoes.” He glanced down at himself. True, his scuffed brown boots were not at all conducive to an elegant waltz, but he looked rather nice today in tan breeches, dark blue jacket, and simply knotted cravat.
“Are you begging off, then?” Had she sounded hopeful? While he danced superbly, she didn’t want to get that close to him. Not after they’d done such a good job avoiding each other.
“Certainly not.” He joined her in the center of the room and looked around. “Is there music?”
Miranda gestured to the eight-year-old boy sitting near the windows. “Young Martin has been playing his flute.”
Fox smiled at him. “Can you play something to which we can move like this?” He stepped his feet in three-quarter time.
Martin nodded and began to play.
Fox faced her and bowed. Cornered, she took his hand, not at all sure she wanted to touch him. Since turning down his marriage proposal, she’d barely spent any time with him, let alone in close proximity. She held her breath, sure their awkwardness with each other would translate into a disastrous demonstration.
He swept her into the waltz, transporting her back to the perfection of their first dance. Today, with the accompaniment, they moved as one, and it was the closest she’d been to her old life since she’d been forced to leave it.
She closed her eyes briefly and let him lead her, let the music relax her tension, let herself enjoy the moment. When she opened them again, his gaze burned strong, intent, reminding her exactly of their first waltz. She couldn’t look away, nor did she want to.
And so they danced.
Until Martin finished his song. In fact, she didn’t realize until after he finished that the music had stopped. As with their previous waltz, they’d continued to dance without music.
“So beautiful,” one of the girls murmured.
“Yes,” Fox agreed, but Miranda knew he and the girl were not commenting on the same thing. A spike of heat burned her neck, and Miranda stepped back. The jade of Fox’s eyes seemed to drown out the gold, as if the flame within him had been doused, before he looked away from her.
“When can we learn it, Lady Miranda?” Lisette clasped her hands before her in an urgent plea.
Miranda smoothed her suddenly dewy palms against her skirt. “Soon, I’m sure. But we’ve had enough today.”
As if she’d overheard, Mrs. Gates appeared at the doorway. “It’s time for afternoon chores. Past time actually.” She smiled. “But I hated to break up such a beneficial lesson. Did you all enjoy your dancing?”
“Oh yes!” The girls twittered all at once, both to Mrs. Gates and to each other. They began to file out of the library. As the last pair passed, Miranda overheard a conversation.
“Maybe Lady Miranda will marry Mr. Foxcroft, and then she’ll be with us forever!”
“Nonsense. Why would she stay here when she could go back to London?”
“But they dance so divinely together!”
Miranda looked away from them, and her gaze connected with Fox’s. From the way he stared at her, she guessed he’d overheard them too.
Beatrice got up from her chair. “Miranda, I’ll be ready to leave in a trice. I just need to run up and fetch, er, something.” She ducked out of the library before Miranda could ask what. Besides, Fox was still staring at her.
And now they were alone. Again. Good Lord, but the country was unconcerned with propriety. When she thought of it that way, Wootton Bassett seemed the perfect place for her to be. Ironic that her parents believed her safe from herself out here—or at least safer than she’d been in London.
Her brain urged her to pick up her feet and flee Fox’s presence.
He stood maybe twenty four inches from her. “
Do they know you’re leaving?”
Miranda’s gut clenched and her feet remained rooted to the floor. “No. But I don’t even know that I’m leaving.”
His body shifted, opened up somehow. “You mean there’s a chance you’ll stay?”
She caught the hope quickening his voice and remorse twitched her shoulders. “No. I was speaking sarcastically. Of course I’m leaving. I just don’t know when.”
He exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath during her response. “They love you, you know. And you seem to have grown fond of them. Why wouldn’t you consider staying? Or perhaps visiting?”
“Oh, I may visit.” But Miranda couldn’t think of when or how. Once she returned to her life, there would be an endless succession of social engagements and obligations, as there had always been. At one time, she’d been sure she could never endure a summer without such activities. Except she had. And, in truth, didn’t miss them as she anticipated she would.
The gold in his eyes reignited. “Is that why you turned down my proposal? Because you can’t see yourself living here?”
Miranda’s insides heated. “Partly, yes.”
“And the other partly?”
“There are many other ‘partlies.’”
“And you’re not going to offer any of them, are you?” The tone of his voice deepened. It rustled over her like a silk chemise.
“Why did you propose?” As soon as she asked the question, she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t like any of the probable answers: he wanted her money, he needed to beat Stratham in some primeval masculine competition, or he lusted after her. The last possibility renewed the heat that had tripped along her spine a few moments ago.
He stared at her a long moment. “I hold you in high esteem.”
That was not what she’d expected to hear. “Esteem? You want to build a marriage on esteem?” It was good enough for most people she knew, but Miranda wanted more. “No, thank you.”