Beauty and the Spy (35 page)

And then in the lull a pistol shot cracked and echoed, and the coach bucked to a stop, sending passengers tumbling over each other.

Highwaymen.
Bloody hell
.

Tom gently sat the curate back into his seat and brushed off his coat, then brushed off his own.

Brazen coves, these highwaymen were, to stop the coach at midday. But this stretch of road was all but deserted, and they'd been known to stop the occasional mail coach run. A mail coach was essentially fish-in-a-barrel for highwaymen. Which meant there must be many of them, all armed, if they were bold enough to stop a loaded coach.

Tom swiftly tucked his watch into his boot and retrieved a pistol at the same time; he saw the curate's eyes bulge and watched him rear back a little in alarm.
Good god. No man should be afraid to shoot if necessary
, Tom thought with some impatience. He tugged the sleeve of his coat down to cover his weapon; one glimpse of it might inspire a nervous highwayman to waste a bullet on him.

"Take off your rings and put them into your shoes," he ordered the newlyweds quietly. Hands shaking like sheets pinned to a line, they obeyed him, as no one else was issuing orders in this extraordinary situation.

Tom knew he had only a ghost of a chance of doing something to deter the highwaymen, no matter their numbers. Still, it never occurred to him not to try. It wasn't as though Tom had never taken anything; when he was young and living in the rookeries, he'd taken food, handkerchiefs, anything small he could fence. But he had ultimately chosen to work for everything he owned; he found it satisfied a need for permanence, a need for… legacy. And damned if he was going to allow someone to take anything he'd earned if he could possibly avoid it. Even if it was only a few pounds and a watch.

"Out, everybody," a graveled voice demanded, '"ands up, now where I can see 'em, now."

And out of the dark coach stumbled the passengers, blinking and pale in the sunlight, one of whom was nearly swooning, if her buckling knees were any indication, and needed to be fanned by her panicking husband.

The air fair shimmered with heat; only a few wan trees interrupted the vista of parched grass and cracked road. Tom took in the group of highwaymen with a glance: five men, armed with muskets and pistols. Clothing dull with grime, kerchiefs covering their faces, hair long and lank and unevenly sawed, as though trimmed with their own daggers. One of them, the one who appeared to be in charge, gripped a knife between his teeth. Tom almost smiled grimly.
A showman
. Excessive, perhaps, but it certainly lent him a dramatic flair the others lacked.

Tom's innate curiosity about any showman made him peer more closely at the man. There was something about him…

"Now see here…" the merchant blustered indignantly, and promptly had five pistols and a knife turned on him. He blanched, clapped his mouth shut audibly. Clearly new to being robbed at gunpoint, he didn't know that etiquette required one to be quiet, lest one get shot.

And then Tom knew. Almost a decade ago, during a few difficult and unforgettable months of work in a dock-side tavern, Tom had spent time with a man who drank the hardest liquor, told the most ribald jokes, tipped most generously, and advised young Tom which whores to avoid and which to court.

"Biggsy?" Tom ventured.

The highwayman swiveled, glowering, and stared at Tom.

Then he reached up and plucked the knife from between teeth brown as aged fence posts, and his face transformed.

"
Tom
? Tommy
Shaughnessy?"

" 'Tis I, in the flesh, Biggs."

"Well, Tommy, as I live and breathe!" Big Biggsy shifted his pistol into his other hand and seized Tom's hand to pump it with genuine enthusiasm. " 'avena seen you since those days at Bloody Joe's! Still a pretty bugger, ain't ye?" Biggsy laughed a richly phlegmy laugh and gave Tom a frisky punch on the shoulder. "Ye've gone respectable, 'ave ye, Tommy? Looka tha' fine coat!"

Tom felt the passengers' eyes slide toward them like so many billiard balls rolling toward a pocket, and then slide away again; he could virtually feel them cringing away from him. He wondered if it was because he was on a Christian name basis with an armed highwayman, or because he had "
gone
respectable," implying he had been anything but at one time.

"Respectable might perhaps be overstating it, Biggsy, but yes, you could say I haven't done too badly."

"'avena done 'atf bad meself," Biggsy announced proudly, gesturing at the characters surrounding him as though they were a grand new suite of furniture.

Tom thought it wisest not to disagree or request further clarification. He decided upon nodding sagely.

"Tis proud I be of ye, Tommy," Biggsy added sentimentally.

"That means the world to me," Tom assured him solemnly.

"And Daisy?" Biggsy prodded. "D'yer see 'er?"

"Oh, yes. She's in fine form, fine form."

"She's a grand woman," the highwayman said mistily.

"She is at that." Grand, and the largest thorn in his side, and no doubt responsible for a good portion of his fortune. Bless the brazen, irritating, glorious Daisy Jones.

Tom gave Biggsy his patented crooked, coaxing grin. "Now, Biggsy, can I persuade you to allow our coach to go on? You've my word of honor not a one shall pursue you."

"Ye've a word of honor now, Tommy?" Biggsy reared back in faux astonishment, then laughed again. Tom, not being a fool, laughed, too, and gave his thigh a little slap for good measure.

Biggsy wiped his eyes and stared at Tom for a moment longer, and took his bottom lip between his teeth to worry it a bit as he mulled the circumstances. And then he sighed and lowered his pistol; and with a jerk of his chin ordered the rest of the armed and mounted men accompanying him to do the same.

"Fer the sake of old times, then, Tommy. Fer the sake of Daisy, and Bloody Joe, rest 'is soul. But I canna leave everythin', you ken 'ow it is—we mun eat, ye ken."

"I ken," Tom repeated commiserating.

"I'll leave the trunks, and jus' 'ave what blunt the lot of ye be carryin' in yer pockets."

"Big of you, Biggsy, big of you," Tom murmured.

"And then I'll 'ave a kiss from one of these young ladies, and we'll be off."

Clunk
. Down went the wobbly new missus, dragging her husband down after her; he hadn't time to stop her fall completely. Never a pleasant sound, the sound of a body hitting the ground.

Biggsy eyed them for a moment in mild contempt. Then he looked back at Tom and shook his head slowly, as if to say,
what a pair of ninnies
.

"All right then. Who will it be?" Biggsy asked brightly. He scanned the row of lovely young ladies hopefully.

Tom thought he should have known his own formidable charm would get him only so far with a highwayman.

The crowd who not a moment before had been mentally inching away from him now swiveled their heads beseechingly toward him. Tom wasn't particularly savoring the irony of this at the moment. He wasn't quite sure how to rescue them from this particular request.

"Now, Biggs," Tom tried for a hail-fellow-well-met cajoling tone, "These are innocent young ladies. If you come to London, I'll introduce you to ladies who'll be happy to—"

"I willna leave without a kiss from one of
these
young ladies." Biggsy insisted stubbornly. "Look a' me, Tom. D'yer think I'm kissed verra often? Let alone by a young thing wi' all of 'er teeth or 'er maidenhe—"

"Biggsy," Tom interjected hurriedly.

"I want a
kiss
."

At the tone, the men behind Biggs put their hands back upon on their pistols, sensing a shift in intent.

Tom's eyes remained locked with Biggsy's, his expression studiedly neutral and pleasant, while his mind did cartwheels.
Bloody, bloody hell. Perhaps I should ask the young ladies to draw straws. Perhaps I should kiss him myself. Perhaps we
—

"I will kiss him."

Everyone, highwaymen included, pivoted, startled, when the little French widow stepped forward. "You will allow the coach to go on if I do?"

Ze coach
, Tom thought absently, is what it sounded like when she said it. Her voice was bell-clear and strong and she sounded very nearly impatient, but Tom caught the hint of a tremble in it again, which he found oddly reassuring. If there had been no tremble, he might have worried again about her sanity, and what she might do with a knitting needle.

"My word of honor," Biggsy said almost humbly. He seemed almost taken aback.

Tom was torn between wanting to stop her, and perverse curiosity to see if she intended to go through with it. She hadn't the bearing or voice of a doxie.
I
am not
… she had struggled to tell him. She was not someone who suffered the attention of gentlemen lightly, he was certain she meant to say. Not someone who was generally in the habit of leaping into the laps of strangers, unless he had a very good reason to do so.

He hoped,
hoped
she didn't intend to attempt anything foolish with a knitting needle.

Biggsy recovered himself. "I'll take that, shall I?" He reached out and adroitly took her reticule from her. He heard her intake of breath, the beginning of a protest, but wisely stopped herself. Ah, she'd good judgment, too.

Tom saw her shoulders square, as though she was preparing herself for a launch upward. She drew in a deep breath.

And then she stood on her toes, lifted her veil up, and kissed Biggsy Biggens full on the mouth.

And a moment later, Biggsy Biggens looked for all the world as blessed as a bridegroom.

The configuration inside the coach on the way to the coaching inn was this: Tom at one end. A foot of space. All of the other passengers all but knotted together for protection. A foot of space. And then the widow.

When readers ask me, "Julie Anne, where did you get the idea for your book?" I'm often tempted to be facetious: "In the frozen food aisle at the grocery store. I had a coupon!" But this isn't as far-fetched as it sounds. I've learned over the years that ideas for books are
everywhere
, especially in mundane places you'd never suspect. It's all in how you look at it.

Take BEAUTY AND THE SPY (on sale now). I was staring at the blank screen of my computer monitor, sort of ping-ponging between horror (Oh
God't
I have to write a whole
book!)
and elation (Hurrah! I get to write a whole
book!)
, when I began to wonder what if your life is suddenly wiped as blank as the screen facing me? What happens when everything you've always known is taken from you, if the supports of your life as you know it are kicked right out from under you, and not even your own name belongs to you anymore? So that's what I did to heiress Susannah Makepeace. Beginning with the mysterious murder of her father, I yanked the timbers of her charmed life out from under her until she finds herself penniless, jilted, and living in the sleepy town of Barnstable with an aunt she hardly knows.

Once the walls of Susannah's old life are torn down, everything she thought she knew about herself was suddenly cast in a different light, and she's forced to stretch and grow. The first thing she does to test the boundaries of her new life is wander off by herself with her sketchbook, stumble across a naked man swimming—the cheerfully arrogant spy Kit Whitelaw, begrudgingly exiled to Barnstable—and fill a blank page with a drawing of him.

The rest, as we say, is history.

Or historical romance.

Julie Anne Long

http://www.ju
lieanne
long.com/

Hi there. This is Angelina Avenger from Lori Wilde's YOU ONLY LOVE TWICE (on sale now). No, I'm not the heroine of the book. What I am is a top notch comic book crime fighter, and my creator Marlie Montague—she's the heroine. She loves spilling all my secrets, so I thought why not turn the tables. And no, I'm not dishing just because she barely has time to draw me anymore since that hunky ex-Navy SEAL Joel Hunter moved in next door. Here's the tattle on Marlie.

She's the shyest thing on the face of the earth and she rarely goes on dates. And talk about a bookworm. She reads so much it makes
me
cross-eyed.

But to give her credit, when a hit man appears on her doorstep with the business end of a semi-automatic pointed at her, she's smart enough to channel me. Once again, I save the day by getting Marlie out of the house, over the fence, and busting through the kitchen window of the rock-hard action hero next door.

Of course what Marlie doesn't realize is that Navy special agent Joel is on a surveillance gig and Marlie is his target. Now the two of them are fending off more double agents than a Bond flick and having a heck of a lot of fun in the process.

Problem is I'm beginning to wonder where I fit into all this. After all, three is a crowd. And if I'm not mistaken, my little bookworm creator seems to be taking her cues from me and turning into something of a femme fatale.

I'm so proud.

Lori Wilde

http://www.loriwilde.com/