Kate Moore (2 page)

“What do you mean to do about it?”

The question embarrassed her, for she had not thought beyond the necessity of stopping him, and now that she had, she was uncomfortably conscious that her reasons for doing so had perhaps little to do with the earl’s papers.

Before she could reply, he patted his pocket and said, “Come, take them back.”

She really ought to. She ought to end their whole unorthodox conversation. She, who had not been alone with any of the young men she met in London, should not prolong a tête-à-tête with a thief.

“If I take them,” she offered, “no one need ever hear of this incident.” She sensed rather than saw his smile. Resolutely she stood, but the long period she had spent curled in the chair made her legs a bit unsteady, so that she tottered. With the same quick deliberateness of motion that she had seen in him from the beginning, the thief caught her. He clapped a warm, firm hand across her mouth and with his other hand captured her about the waist and pulled her up against him.

At the thief’s unexpected use of force, Margaret gasped. She pushed against his chest, and shook her head in a vain attempt to free her mouth from his hand. Her brief, silent struggle merely left her breathless, her arms trembling. She had not the strength to break his hold, and he had stopped her words. She drew a steadying breath and raised her gaze to his.

His eyes, blue and vivid and solemn, met hers in a look that held her more firmly than his grip about her waist or his warm hand across her mouth.

Margaret summoned all that she knew of courage and conscience and let her eyes speak, but the force of her principles seemed as weak as straw against the fire of some unshakable purpose in him.

“My girl,” he whispered hoarsely, “I do not know who has greater cause to regret our meeting tonight. I do know we have tarried long enough. I must have the earl’s papers, and you, alas, must come with me.” Even with one hand the stranger had no difficulty restraining her movements as he removed his neckcloth. With it he covered Margaret’s mouth, muffling further protest. He swept her along to the window as if she were a mere doll in his arms, apparently indifferent as she twisted helplessly in his hold. The low sill hardly presented an obstacle as he slung her over his shoulder and stepped out into the night.

2

M
ARGARET REACHED FOR
the cloth that bound her mouth, but her fingers could not loosen the knot, and her chin collided with the stranger’s back, jarring her teeth. She clutched his coat to keep from being jounced senseless. She must protest, but she could not speak. She must act. No gently bred young woman should suffer herself to be carried off in the arms of a stranger, but it was impossible to determine what to do when one was being borne along at such a giddy pace and by such an odd means of conveyance. It was something like being carried by sedan-chair bearers in Bath who had suddenly gone mad and overturned their passengers. As they crossed the terrace, she willed herself to consider the practical difficulties of escaping the thief’s hold.

Then they were dashing down the long steep hill which fell away from the west wing of the earl’s hall, and any struggle on her part would likely send them both tumbling dangerously. She counseled herself to wait for the right moment to escape.

They reached the edge of the woods at the bottom of the hill even as she considered other ways to check their flight. The thief seemed to know exactly where they were going, and it occurred to her that he was acting according to some plan. She was not surprised when a path opened up before them in the woods. He lowered her feet to the ground and gently removed the cloth from her mouth. Before she could move an inch, his hands closed about her arms. She opened her mouth, but his words forestalled her.

“You may scream, if you like,” he said, “but as a practical means of effecting an escape, I cannot recommend it. We are now quite distant from the hall.” He whistled a low two-toned note, like a bird’s call, and she thought she heard a horse nicker and stamp in reply. There was an answering whistle, and then her companion pulled her forward. A single long ray of light appeared to bob toward them in the darkness.

The thought that the thief might have an accomplice strengthened her resolve. She had been resisting the thief’s pull on her wrist so that their arms were extended like a taut rope. As the beam of light bobbed closer, she darted forward, slackening his hold on her wrist. Instantly she twisted free and spun about, intending to slip into the brush, but branches caught at her skirts.

“Drew?” said a voice that sounded familiar.

“Here, Ned,” her abductor answered. As quick as she had been, he was quicker and captured her about the waist, pulling her up against his body, and securing her flailing arms behind her back. She dug her heels into the ground, but the thin slippers slid over leaves and loose earth as the thief pushed her forward.

“What kept you?” the other man asked. “You’ll have the devil’s own time making it to Highcliffe before Cy does.”

“So I shall,” replied her companion with what she suspected was characteristic calm. In a little clearing they paused at last, Margaret quite breathless. There the other man withdrew the cover from the lantern he carried. At seeing him Margaret started, for he was one of the earl’s grooms, a jolly, handsome fellow not much older than herself, with the sort of red hair one could see a long way off. As they stared at one another, the thief laughed and released Margaret. She distanced herself from him at once, but the look in his eyes persuaded her she could not escape. She paused to catch her breath and think what to do.

“Lord, Drew, what’s she doing here?” asked the groom. Plainly he was as surprised to see Margaret as she to see him and much more troubled.

“I discovered too late that the library was occupied,” her companion replied. “You seem to know the lady, Ned. Who is she?”

“She’s Margaret Somerley,” said the groom. “She’s your . . . she’s the old earl’s guest.”

The thief swore. The two men stared at each other, and Margaret thought she might laugh at their dismay. Then they laughed themselves, and, looking at her thief, Margaret decided she was right, his mouth and eyes were made for laughing. He returned her look, and his laugh faded, his expression becoming grave again.

“Well, Miss Somerley, what do you say to a moonlight ride?” As he spoke, he restored his ruined cravat to a surprising degree of neatness and intricacy.

“You don’t mean to take her!” Ned exclaimed.

“Take me where?” Margaret asked.

“I can’t leave her with you, Ned,” said the thief, ignoring Margaret’s question. “She has apparently an excess of conscience, and I don’t mean for you to hang for this night’s work.”

***

Hanging
. The suggestion of it sobered her, but she stood firm, refusing to shrink from her captor in spite of a very small but very sharp fear. She realized she had not felt particularly afraid of him. He had shocked her with his use of force, but her resistance to him had been a matter of affronted dignity. They had been talking, and he had used an unfair advantage, and she had been unable to reason with him. Now she considered that perhaps he had stolen something so valuable that she might be in danger because she had witnessed his crime, but she could not credit it. After all, his accomplice was not some villainous criminal, but the friendly and familiar groom of the Earl of Haddon. It was all a trick or a game, something Tom True would have dreamed up, and she had only to remind these men of their proper roles and this foolish episode would end.

She turned to the groom. “Are you going to allow this man to steal papers from your employer?”

The red-haired young man looked from her to his friend with some confusion and closed his mouth tight.

“Well, shouldn’t
you
attempt to rescue me?” she asked him.

“Rescue you?” he said, as if he did not comprehend her meaning. “Oh, you mean from Drew.”

Margaret felt that however patient she might be obliged to be under ordinary circumstances, she was not obliged to be patient in this one. “This is an abduction, isn’t it?” she pointed out.

“Only because I forgot about you when I gave Drew the all-clear,” he retorted. “You’re in no danger from Drew, at least not the sort of danger you’re worried about. He hasn’t touched a woman in two years.”

The thief named Drew laughed. “Thank you, Ned, for making Miss Somerley a gift of my ill luck as a lover. I hardly think your revelation reassures her.”

“Well, she ought to see you’re a gentleman. And you couldn’t stop being one just because . . .”

“Is one gentleman allowed to steal from another?” asked Margaret.

“Steal? You think he stole . . .” began the groom.

“Enough,” said the thief. He gave his companion a look that Margaret could only describe as a warning.

Ned shrugged and brought forward the horse he had been leading. The horse, a gray stallion as fine as any in the earl’s stable, nudged the thief playfully.

“Which horse has Miss Somerley been riding?” her thief asked.

“Cinnamon.” Ned named the roan mare Margaret liked so much.

“Then take Cinnamon to Upton for the night, and keep your ears open for how they take Miss Somerley’s disappearance at the hall.”

At the word
disappearance
Margaret glanced around for an opening in the trees, but the thief anticipated her flight and tossed her up to the gray’s saddle. She dug her heels into the horse’s side, leaning forward in a message of urgency the dullest nag could understand, but the great gray beneath her only flicked his ears as if to rid himself of a fly. Margaret righted herself. She might have guessed the man’s horse would be as loyal as his red-haired accomplice.

“I’ll see that no one knows of your involvement in this, Ned,” the thief was saying.

“Don’t worry about me, Drew,” the other replied. “Take care of yourself with that damned Croisset.”

“I mean to.” The thief mounted behind Margaret. He leaned forward, stroking the horse and speaking softly. A slight touch of his knees to the horse’s flanks set the animal in motion. Margaret shivered, suddenly cool in her thin muslin with her arms and throat bare, cool except for the warm proximity of the man behind her. His chest against her back, his arms on either side of her, the linen of his neckcloth against her bare shoulder—these were oddly distracting sensations, but she must not be distracted by them, for she had quite lost control of her situation. She was not Prudence, persuading Tom True to choose a wise course. She was Margaret, being carried through the dark wood farther and farther from the hall and those who would care what became of her. With her favorite mount gone her parents would probably believe she had run away. Her absence during the evening, indeed, her withdrawal from her mother ever since they had arrived at Haddon, would lend credence to the idea. She straightened and leaned forward, achieving a slight distance between them. She had to think.

“Cold?” he asked.

“No,” she lied and thought he laughed.

“So you do know how to lie,” he said amicably. “If it makes you less rare, it is, nevertheless, a useful accomplishment.”

“It must be in your line of work,” she replied, annoyed at being seen through again. The pause before he answered her was the tiniest bit too long, she thought.

“Oh, yes,” he agreed, “but the trick is in knowing what to lie about. You, it seems, know the London lie—that is, you know how to deny what is perfectly obvious to your companion in order that both may be saved from embarrassment.” He paused, and in a changed voice said, “My Lord Leadfeet, nothing would please me more than to dance with you, but the room is so warm, do you think you might bring me some refreshment first? Lady Loosetongue, so good to see you again.”

Margaret had to laugh at his mimicry, but it confused her too, for he was talking as if they were partners in a ballroom. She could not reconcile his light words with his acts. Her mother had certainly never advised her on the subject of polite discourse with a kidnapper.

She shook herself, not deigning to answer him, and stared ahead. At the very next opening she would slip from the horse. Though her pale gown must show against the black brush and tree trunks, this time she was sure she could lose her abductor. Then she would simply climb a tree and wait for dawn. At first light she would find her way back to the hall. Then she would show the earl the drawer that had been opened. However angered the thief might be at her escape, he was unlikely to pursue her for long, because he had miles to go to keep the appointment the red-haired groom had mentioned. She tensed for the effort she must make.

Just as she saw a widening in the path ahead, he encircled her ribs with one strong arm and pulled her firmly against him.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. Once again he had anticipated her actions and thwarted her. What was she to do?

“You know,” he said, “I am inclined to think that my removing you from the hall should be considered a rescue rather than an abduction.”

“A rescue?” She could not think as clearly as she wished to, conscious as she was of his fingers over her ribs and the way the horse’s easy movement caused her bare arm to slide up and down against the silk of his waistcoat. “Did you think I was a prisoner there?”

“What else could explain it? A pretty girl, immured in a library in the country when there must be three balls and a Venetian breakfast to attend in London. Confess, I did rescue you—from boredom.”

“No,” she said, momentarily disconcerted by his phrase “pretty girl.” He was offering Spanish coin, of course. “No, not from boredom, from my own thoughts perhaps.”

He laughed at that, and his breath stirred her hair. “You
are
an honest girl, Meg Somerley.”

“Miss Somerley to you,” she said.

“Never Meg?”

“Never.”

“But tonight you must be Meg, for you are having the adventure Margaret Somerley merely dreams of.”

It was a conjecture so accurate and penetrating that she wondered if he had seen the little book in her lap, had guessed her dreams.

They had come to the edge of the wood, and the horse lunged up a short embankment to a road bathed in the light of a quarter moon rising to their left. The horse pranced and sidled, but her companion stilled the powerful animal and held him lightly in check.

“Now, Miss Somerley,” he said, the playfulness gone from his voice, “you must swear not to make any attempts to escape before we reach Highcliffe.”

Margaret said nothing. She had determined on no safe means of escape, yet he seemed to anticipate her every thought.

“Swear it,” he insisted. “I mean to give Phantom his head, and it would likely cost you your pretty neck to slip from him along the road.”

“I swear,” she said with grudging acquiescence.

“Not good enough, my girl.”

Margaret remained stubbornly silent. The horse shifted restlessly beneath them, and the movement rocked Margaret’s body against the thief’s from knee to shoulder. The words she had heard earlier in the wood came back to puzzle her.
He hasn’t touched a woman in two years
. He certainly had touched her.

“I swear to make no attempt to escape before Highcliffe.”

“Good,” he said. He released his hold on her ribs, and she felt him stretch and twist behind her. In a moment he had draped his jacket about her shoulders, the blue superfine warm and softer than she thought a man’s garment would be, the papers in the inner pocket heavy against her arm.

“It is not me you are taking. It is these papers. Could you not leave me behind?”

“You underestimate yourself, Meg. It gives me no pleasure at all to carry off the earl’s papers.”

Margaret made no reply. It was plain he meant to offer her flattery, not reason.

“Slip your arms into the sleeves,” he commanded. When she complied, he tightened his hold on her waist once more. With less impatience he continued, “In Highcliffe there is a kind soul who will keep you for the night and restore you to your family in the morning.” He pressed his knees lightly against the horse’s sides, and, thus encouraged, Phantom broke into an easy canter.

Margaret knew at once that her promise not to escape was superfluous. She could not escape now. The rider at her back urged and checked, encouraged and steadied the animal so that they seemed to fly along, man and stallion apparently relishing the risks they were taking. In the movement of the man’s thigh against her own, in the steady arms about her, and in the voice at her ear, Margaret felt every message of rider to horse, and always Phantom responded. They passed through startling alterations of light and shadow along the road, crossed glittering creeks, and flew by oddly contorted black shapes which, Margaret believed, must be gorse bushes by day.