Rogues Gallery (2 page)

"Perhaps I should receive a small boon in return for my heroic deed," he suggested.

Before she could respond, he turned her hand over, exposing the pale skin of her wrist above the kid glove. He raised it to his lips with infinite slowness.

Marisa's knees trembled, but she had yet to swoon in her short life. She did not intend to do so now, lest she miss the heady experience of being kissed by a knight of the road.

His eyes never left hers, daring her to call a halt to his audacious act. She returned his gaze, her breathing ragged, her feverish skin impatient for his touch. When his lips finally brushed against her, she closed her eyes and allowed the exhilaration to wash over her.

Why had she not been forced to wed a man such as this one? There would be no need for defiance or escape plots if her father had decreed this man was to be her husband.

A horse nickered in the background, diverting the highwayman's attention, ending the kiss much too soon for Marisa's taste. Her eyes fluttered open, and she ached to return to that delicious moment of pure sensation.

Bernard stepped forward to retrieve her, but a rogue with unruly red hair waved him back with a large pistol. Her brother frowned, unhappy at being bested by a young man whose menacing glare was accompanied by a rash of freckles.

Marisa turned to hide her smile, but the highwayman saw it and he chuckled.

"You have distracted me from my original purpose, angel." He brushed her hand with a quick kiss before releasing it.

"You have done the same to me," she replied.

"Indeed? And how might I serve your purposes?"

"Poppet," Bernard growled. He shot her another warning glance, but she ignored it as before. He had left her with no option, despite her repeated pleas. Marisa's future was not the only one at stake.

"I am to wed Lord—"

"Here," Bernard said in a rush, reaching inside his greatcoat. "Take these. They are all we have in the way of valuables." He extended a jewel case toward the highwayman. "You may have these so long as we are free to resume our journey."

Marisa gaped at her brother. He was a younger son, one of many in her large family, and not likely to possess jewels of any kind. The majority of his meager allowance was spent on ensuring he was in the first stare of fashion. How had he—

Realization knocked the air from her chest. Bernard could have utilized the jewels to finance a very comfortable life for both of them, preventing her upcoming nuptials. Yet clearly he had not been motivated to do so. His betrayal stung, for he had allied himself with Father, even knowing how desperately she needed his help.

The highwayman grasped the case and opened it. He stepped back a pace, his eyes wide. Surely jewels and jewelry cases were the norm, indeed, the
raison d'etre
, for a man who robbed the king's highways each night. Yet this man appeared as astonished by their presence as Marisa had been.

The rogue guarding Bernard raced to the highwayman's side, eager to view the treasure. Bernard clutched Marisa's arm, and pulled her toward the carriage. She twisted away from him, dragging her heels, determined to depart with the highwayman. He was her only remaining chance at freedom. She had to find her way back to London, before it was too late.

She curved away from her brother, but he was too quick. He tightened his grip and hurried her to their equipage, determined to leave before Marisa divulged her valuable status.

Marisa glanced back at her erstwhile rescuer, but he was transfixed by the jewel case in his hands. She opened her mouth to call to him, but Bernard propelled her into the coach, slamming the door behind them. The coachman slapped the reins against the mounts, eager to make up for the time lost during their misadventure. Perhaps the horses sensed the driver's fright, for the carriage bolted down the highway, leaning precariously to one side.

Marisa spied the highwayman in the coach's path ahead of them, oblivious to the danger speeding toward him. She swallowed her scream. Was this part of her dire future too? Not only must she wed a man she feared, she must also witness the destruction of this cavalier, the embodiment of her romantic dreams.

In the next instant, the red-haired brigand grasped the highwayman's cape and dragged him to safety.

Marisa's heart fell back into place, resuming a somewhat normal rhythm, though it would be a while before the pangs of disappointment subsided.

Yet another failed attempt at escape.

At least the knight errant was in no further danger. He would live to steal kisses from another impressionable miss one day. Perhaps, if she were lucky, he would include their midnight tryst in his memoirs, when he was in his dotage, recalling the stirring adventures of his youth.

She peered out the side glass once more, craving a final look at the dashing highwayman as they raced past. Their hasty departure twisted the covering on the carriage door, exposing Lord Westbrook's crest. The highwayman's eyes lit up with instant recognition. He looked up at Marisa, and his lips curved into the most delicious smile.

A heartbeat later, the darkness erased him from her sight. Marisa was once more racing to Westbrook Hall, certain she had imagined the entire escapade. She wiped away a tear before Bernard could see her in a rare weak moment, and report on it to their father.

Why had the Fates dangled the hope of escape in front of her, only to wrench it away in such a cruel, heartless fashion?

***

G
abriel DeVault adjusted the leather strip around his eyes as he glanced down at Westbrook Hall. He had viewed the estate from this promontory many times over the years, memorizing every detail. It was an impressive home of Palladian design, with curved staircases of York stone flanking the main entrance, and statues from antiquity balancing atop Corinthian columns. The house was surrounded by acres of parkland, as well as parterres, and gardens of every variety, all designed to reflect the family's wealth and status.

Tonight, Gabriel saw Westbrook Hall in a completely different light, thanks to a chance encounter on the king's highways.

"Gilbey, I must thank you for preventing my demise this evening." He tugged at the knot of his cape, not quite able to find a comfortable spot. "Though your rough manner calls to mind a hangman's noose about my throat."

"I noticed you were a mite distracted," Gilbey answered, a wide grin covering his freckled face. "And that kiss you stole. I thought I might need help from the lads, to wrench you away from the young beauty."

"I paid her scarce more attention than the other ladies we encounter during a night's work," Gabriel retorted. "It was a mere kiss."

In truth, the angel's pulse had throbbed under his lips in a most entrancing fashion, creating an answering ache in his loins. Her rosewater-scented skin, and the gossamer curls, elicited the most delicious thoughts.

"Aye, a mere kiss. I can see you scarce remember her."

Gilbey's grin widened, but Gabriel chose to ignore him. His attention was centered on something a great deal more important.

Lord Westbrook's carriage rolled to a stop in the pea gravel driveway. Liveried footmen rushed out with torches to usher the passengers into the grand entryway.

Gabriel's breath caught at the sight of the blonde woman descending from the traveling coach, albeit in a more decorous fashion than when she had landed in his arms earlier that evening. His body reacted at that delectable memory, and he shifted in his saddle, disturbing his horse's grazing. The inky-black animal reared its head, snorting its displeasure. Its heated breath mingled with the crisp night air, creating a swirling fog around them.

"Come, Eclipse," Gabriel said, smoothing his gloved hand over the stallion's sleek muscled neck. "Surely you can permit me one more glimpse of Lord Westbrook's betrothed."

She was possessed of such an angelic demeanor, yet it was paired with an unexpectedly devilish manner. He could not help but be enchanted by her beauty. The pale blonde curls, unwilling to remain confined in the topknot she wore, coupled with the cobalt-blue eyes, were enough to distract any man from rational thought. The first time she smiled, his heart had ceased beating for several long seconds.

Yet it was the mischievous sparkle in those innocent eyes, and the utterly bold manner in which she had inspected his costume, which made him smile now. She had not swooned or fainted when he kissed her. Instead she had accused him of distracting her from her purpose. He laughed at the unexpected notion.

What could such a spirited miss want from a highwayman?

Gabriel reached into his boot for the jewel case. He opened it, catching his breath once more at the display of rubies, the pigeon's-blood-red gems given to the Westbrook brides for numerous generations.

The jewels brought an answering flood of memories: the carriage accident, his parents' lifeless bodies, the hands around his throat, choking the life from his ten-year-old body.

He returned his attention to Westbrook Hall. The carriage was leaving the driveway, heading for the mews. The bold miss was safely inside the foyer, most likely on her way to meet with her betrothed.

"Gilbey, return to the abbey. I shall meet up with you later."

The gap-toothed lad did not try to hide his skepticism. "You do not want to seek out another coach this evening?"

Gabriel shook his head, dislodging a blond strand. He tucked it back inside the leather queue.

"I have something else I must do first," he replied.

Gilbey chuckled. "The lengths you go to in order to steal more kisses."

Gabriel tightened his grip on the reins while Eclipse pranced and pawed at the ground, mirroring Gabriel's excitement. "I can assure you I have more in mind than stealing kisses."

Gilbey held his gaze, clearly wanting to say more. Finally his lips tilted up in a wry fashion. "The better part of valor is not questioning your actions any further?"

"Something like that," Gabriel said, returning the smile. "Say nothing to Jamie of what has transpired this night. I shall tell him upon my return."

Gilbey nodded, and shot him a quick salute. "Godspeed then."

Gabriel touched his heels to the stallion's flanks, and galloped off toward Westbrook Hall.

***

L
ord Westbrook reclined on the rumpled bedcovers with his arm across his closed eyes. Although he was just past forty, he knew his unlined face exhibited the innocence of a man nearly half his age. His trim athletic body, the envy of his peers, also belied the march of time afflicting his contemporaries.

He stroked the thigh of the woman laying facedown next to him. He considered indulging himself once more, pretending as he did each time that the witless female was someone else, but his body had no interest in cooperating. Her hair was light brown, not blonde. She was common, and fleshy, rather than elegant, and slender.

She was Daphne, a housemaid, not Marisa, the future Lady Westbrook.

"Come, Daphne, you lazy slut." He gave her buttocks a resounding slap. "Time for you to leave. Your mistress will be here soon, and you must prepare for her arrival."

She squealed her protest.

He pinched her, not a trace of affection in the gesture. "Off with you. I've more than had my fill of you."

Her dismayed response was interrupted by a circumspect knock at the door.

"Come in," Lord Westbrook said, patting back a yawn.

The butler entered, his eyes averted as Daphne scrambled to cover herself. The man's oft-broken nose twitched at the overpowering scent of opium and recent sexual activity, although this was not the burly man's first encounter with the potent combination.

He had seen, and done, much worse in service to Lord Westbrook over the years.

"Pardon me, my lord," the faithful servant said. "There has been a bit of trouble this evening."

"Trouble?" Lord Westbrook vaulted from the canopied bed, his nakedness forgotten. "What sort of trouble?"

"Miss Dunsmore and her brother were set upon by highwaymen."

"Is she quite all right?" Lord Westbrook grabbed a maroon silk robe and thrust his arms inside, nearly tearing the delicate fabric. "Where is she now?"

The lavishly decorated bedchamber was a blur as he paced, gulping one rapid breath after another.

If anything were to happen to his betrothed, before she produced his heirs—how could this be happening to him?

"They are both quite fine, my lord," the butler replied. "They have been shown to their rooms, and wish to rest for the remainder of the evening."

"Understandable." Lord Westbrook's heartbeat resumed its normal pattern. "It can be quite an unsettling experience."

"Quite, my lord."

"Make sure a posset is sent up to her. Something calming, and restorative."

"I have taken the liberty of doing so already, my lord."

The man paused, then cleared his throat.

"There is something else?"

Lord Westbrook felt the sharp edges of his anxiety returning, much as he tried to quell it. He could not allow his plans to be thwarted now. He had such an important task ahead of him: the founding of a dynasty. He would not let anything get in his way.

Not after he'd removed all the other obstacles.

The butler nodded toward Daphne.

Lord Westbrook cursed. He had completely forgotten her presence. He turned to see her peering at him with unabashed curiosity. She was not the woman he wanted in his bed. She was a convenient vessel, nothing more. The woman he craved, the one who would beget his heirs, was forbidden until the vows were spoken.

And he had come so close to losing her this night.

"Did I not say to get out?" he cried. "Be gone!"

"Oh, my lord," Daphne said, her voice breaking. She bit her lower lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. "Please, my lord—"

Lord Westbrook ambled to where she sat on the bed, the sheet clutched to her breast. She watched his advance, a crooked smile on her lips, and her hopeful expression was just what he desired.

He leaned forward, until his lips brushed against her ear. His voice dropped to a whisper. "You sicken me."