Beguiled (10 page)

“Then I had to get ready for the event, and an Inspector Turner was in the kitchen, and by then, guests were arriving. So, thanks to you, the Earl of Warren—who seems to be an entirely decent man—got to see his prospective daughter-in-law gape and stare and probably look quite like an idiot when the grand engagement was announced.”

“You don't sound pleased at the prospect of your marriage.”

“I'm not.”

“Why not? Most young women in your position would be thrilled by the opportunity to become a countess.”

She waved a hand in the air. “It's hardly your business.”

To her surprise, he caught her waving hand. She had forgotten the ring on her finger. His own hand was clad in a knit glove that left the fingertips free. She was surprised by her own lack of protest when he shifted his lazy position to sit up and study the ring.

“Nice,” he told her.

She did snatch her hand away, then, though to her distress, she felt her cheeks reddening. “If you don't mind, I'd just as soon not discuss the situation with an outlaw.”

“I've heard,” he said, ignoring her words, “that this secret agreement was made between Lord Stirling and Lord Farrow years ago.”

“Must you?” she objected.

“So all these years, you've been groomed to be the perfect countess. Voice like a lark, dances like an angel and so on.”

She gritted her teeth. “Perhaps dancing wouldn't be such a bad occupation for you. Better than robbing carriages.”

“What makes you think I can't dance, Miss Grayson?”

He leapt with swift agility to his feet. Elaborately, he bowed to her.

She stared at him, then started to laugh.

He straightened. “I am a dangerous outlaw, you know. You should not laugh at me.”

“If I considered you dangerous, I'd be long gone by now.”

“I see. You find me amusing?” He reached for her hand, drawing her to her feet despite herself. She was suddenly close—his scent was provocative—wondering at her own sanity. But he wasn't dangerous. Not to her. Somehow she knew it.

She smiled, not even protesting his hold. “Yes, I find you quite…diverting,” she informed him.

“Then dance with me.”

“There is no music.”

“Hum.”

“Don't be silly.”

“Fine. I shall hum.”

And he did, a quite passable Viennese waltz, and before she knew it, they were dancing swiftly through the copse. She felt the close contact of his body, and she thought she had never been so in tune with her partner's every movement. His hands were sure, and he led with confidence and strength, but never too much power. She loved his touch, the way they moved, the way the earth felt beneath her bare feet. The air seemed to rush around her with a fresh, clean sweetness. His thighs were hard, muscled, his whole body vital and alive.

She was laughing, finding it quite absurd, dancing in the forest with an outlaw. They were close, their faces nearly touching. His mouth was so very close to hers….

The reality of what she was doing suddenly frightened her. She wasn't at all certain she could agree to a marriage, not if she wished to live her own dream, but this behavior was certainly a dishonor to those who cared for her.

Her laughter faded. She pulled away. This was indeed absurd. She should be ashamed of herself.

“I can't do this,” she said softly.

“Dance in the forest? Ah, that's right. You are an engaged woman.”

“I owe nothing to Lord Farrow's son.”

“Oh?”

“I don't even know him.”

“Ah.”

She shook her head. “You're a criminal,” she informed him.

“But a criminal with a newspaper,” he told her.

She forgot everything else. “Where?” she demanded.

He hesitated. “I'll bring it.”

He disappeared down one of the trails, and she waited, uncertain, her heart thundering. His horse must be near.

He returned with the day's paper, and she snatched it from him with a delighted cry.

Last Sunday, the first piece by A. Anonymous had run. The paper had been just as he had described it, with the article about the murder of Giles Brandon and the opinion piece that had been Brandon's last.

And then there had been the defense of the monarchy, by A. Anonymous.

Today there was another article on the front page by A. Anonymous.

She avidly read the piece that reminded people again that the anti-monarchists themselves might well be responsible for the murders—which were, sadly, still unsolved. When she turned the page, she saw there was another mention of her impending marriage.

And after that…

An article about the highwayman. He had struck several carriages throughout the week, but instead of bringing down terrible rancor, he had enchanted an elderly noble woman. She had been delighted to discover that the ring he had taken had wound up in the hands of the Victorian Ladies Society for the Betterment of Our Sisters. She had paid a ransom for her ring, which had really been a donation, and thereby, financed a day's free meal in a churchyard.

“Good God, you're fast,” he said as she turned pages.

She afforded him a quick glance. “I rarely had other children around. Reading became…my companion,” she murmured. “You're being too modest, by the way. Your adventures are gaining popularity. This lady does not exactly say so, but I believe she is all but begging you to hold her up again.”

He shrugged.

She had barely realized it when he sat down close beside her on her rock again. It seemed entirely natural. Their arms were side by side, and he was leaning in, studying the pages along with her. She was aware once more of his scent and the flush of heat he aroused in her. She straightened self-consciously.

“A. Anonymous,” he muttered. “There's a dead man for you.”

“What?” She frowned fiercely. “I thought you were a bandit, but a loyal British bandit who honored the queen.”

“A. Anonymous's identity will be discovered. And once that happens, don't you think the anti-monarchists will put him on a murder list?”

“I think the man has every right to speak out. And you! You say you are the queen's man, even if a rogue. You should be applauding him.”

“I'm simply saying that he'd best make sure his byline remains in the paper. Or perhaps, for his own good, he should cease writing.”

“Perhaps he cannot do so. Perhaps he feels it necessary for such an article to be written and published, even if he must remain anonymous.”

“The paper pays for such political essays,” the highwayman pointed out.

“Maybe A. Anonymous is smart enough to have the checks sent to a post box.”

“And don't you think the killers will know that? They will have their ways to discover the truth. Perhaps they'll get into the newspaper files somehow, find out where the checks are sent—and wait.”

She felt her blood grow cold, and she shivered. He frowned instantly. “Are you cold? I have my cape…back with the horse,” he said ruefully.

“No, no…I have a cape. There,” she murmured, pointing to where it had fallen to the ground. He leapt to his feet, procured the cape and slipped it around her shoulders. As he did so, there was a moment of closeness that seemed incredibly sweet.

She drew away. “You speak about the danger to A. Anonymous, but what about yourself? Eventually someone will kill you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You're a criminal, for God's sake. And criminals who continue along a path such as yours are eventually undone.”

Beneath the mask, his lips curled. “But I am not a common criminal, at least. I have had some training in etiquette.”

“Indeed. And therefore there can be no earthly excuse for the road you have chosen.”

She turned away from him, walking to the spot where she had left her stockings and shoes.

“Don't go,” he said, suddenly very serious.

“I must. And don't…don't come here again. I've told you, Brian Stirling is a dangerous man.”

“You don't believe it, but so am I.”

“He is the Earl of Carlyle.”

“And I am a thief.”

“I can't be here with you,” she said firmly. He was going to touch her again, she thought, her mind running foolishly to the thought that it was almost as if…as if she longed to slip back into his arms, feel the brush of his fingers, let him lift her chin…and place his lips upon hers.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Wait!” he called.

Despite herself, she hesitated.

He came to the tree where she stood and set his palm upon it, leaning toward her. There was a sudden seriousness in his eyes that gave her pause.

“I must admit, I have had a passion—born of the direst need—for my…career as an outlaw. But if I weren't a criminal, my dear Miss Grayson, do you think you would have offered me a place, however slight, in your life?”

“In my life…?”

“We are moving ever forward, out of the Dark Ages,” he said ruefully. “Would you have let me call upon you, do you think?”

She stared back at him. His smile was so wistful beneath his mask. Before anything could happen that might be her undoing, she needed to flee.

“Sadly, you are a criminal. And I am engaged.”

“Perhaps…a few more words from you and I may atone for my sins.”

“You tease me, and I am afraid I cannot play your game,” she told him. Yet she set a hand upon his chest before she slipped past him, almost desperate to escape and return to the cottage.

He watched her go, wishing she would come back….

Angry she had stayed so long.

She had run off with the newspaper, he realized, and he couldn't help but smile. Such a little thing to give someone so much pleasure. Frowning, he realized she had left her sketchbook.

He should leave it. She would come back for it eventually.

Yet it might rain before she found the opportunity. And if he took it, he would have an opportunity to return it to her—as the highwayman, of course. Clasping the sketchbook, he hurried down the trail to his horse.

It was rather convenient that the cottage in the woods was not far from the hunting lodge his father kept, Mark thought wryly. And indeed, the stream actually was on his father's property.

He realized that he wasn't at all certain how he was feeling after his encounter with Miss Alexandra Grayson. Certainly she shouldn't be entertaining an outlaw in the forest—not when she was wearing an engagement ring.

And yet…

He was fascinated by the tawny fall of her hair, by the laughter in her eyes and by the keen eagerness with which she had read the paper. Even by her arguments. He wasn't even sure why he had been so insistent about all he said, except in part for the enjoyment of sparring with her. He'd applauded the article in the paper, which truly had been excellent. And it was true that he prayed for the poor fool who had written it, because it really would be quite easy for someone to bribe his way into the files, or maybe there was someone at the newspaper who was less than honest and would be ready to divulge the truth to the wrong party for a price.

He heard a whistle and reined in his horse, replying in kind. A moment later, Patrick came riding hard down the trail.

“Your father is at the lodge, looking for you,” Patrick told him.

“Whatever for? I never explain my whereabouts.”

“Apparently he assumed you were at the lodge, perhaps playing with one of what he calls your detecting gadgets, and he has promised your appearance at a luncheon.”

“A luncheon?”

“At the museum.”

“I had thought we should comb the trails again this afternoon—”

“Mark, give this one afternoon to your father. We will ride out as ourselves and report anything we see, I swear it. Trust your fellow bandits,” Patrick said, grinning.

“All right. Watch the roads, though. I do want to know who is traveling where,” Mark told him. Then, spurring his horse, he hurried on toward the lodge.

His father was at his desk, holding a long scarf, frowning as he lifted it and found it heavy.

“What is this?” he asked his son.

Mark walked over to the desk and picked up the long knit scarf. He set it around his neck. Then he removed it and swung it, creating a whirring in the air.

“A backup weapon, Father.”

Lord Farrow looked unhappy.

“Where did you learn to make this?”

“From a book.”

“A book on warfare?”

“A book of stories about Sherlock Holmes. Arthur Conan Doyle is a very cunning man.”

His father sighed. “When you're not out and about imitating his character, do you frequent the literary circles and drive the man crazy with questions?”

“Sometimes.”

Joseph sighed. “I believe I am actually best off when I'm unaware of your exploits.”

“Father, I remind you again, I serve the queen. You fought in the army, as I did. And now I believe I can serve in a better way. Would you have me do any less?”

“No,” Joseph said after a moment. “I would that these wretched internal conflicts came to a halt.” He sighed deeply. “A man must always do what he feels in his heart he must. But for today, perhaps you could play the role of my son. Can you come with me to the museum? We shall have to hurry.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Joseph said.

“Yes, I'll come with you.”

Joseph smiled. “I hadn't expected so easy a victory. The carriage awaits. Pray, dress like a nobleman this once, eh?”

“I shall be impeccable,” Mark promised. He started for his bedroom, then paused. “Are we going to lunch for a reason?”

“Indeed. You're to meet your fiancée.”

“Today?”

“You should have met last week.”

“Yes…but…”

“Is something wrong?”

“I…no. No, of course not. I'll get dressed quickly.”