Rogues Gallery (4 page)

Apparently her show of fear convinced Edmund, for his expression softened. Not for the first time Marisa choked back a tide of revulsion. She had no rational reason for such an emotion, yet it had not abated since their first meeting months ago. Lord Westbrook was a rich, well-respected peer of the realm. She only knew she could never be this man's wife.

"I can see I have caused you undue alarm."

He patted her hand in what was surely intended as a comforting fashion. Yet it was anything but comforting, primarily because it was his touch, but also because it was perilously close to the would-be rescuer in her bed. She leaned back to prevent any further contact.

"Perhaps it would be wise to return to London. If Father were to learn of the dangers here—"

Edmund's lips lifted in wry acknowledgment of her warning.

"That won't be necessary, my dear. Forgive me for rousing your fears while attempting to allay mine." He paused as if weighing his words. "You shall most likely be unable to sleep for hours."

Not when she was besieged by uninvited male visitors throughout the night.

"You are no doubt correct, my lord," Marisa managed in a prim voice.

"Well, my dear, try to get some rest anyway. We have much to do on the morrow."

Despite his words, he made no move to depart, so Marisa yawned with what she hoped was convincing vigor. He stepped away from her bed, gnawing at his lip. At last he headed for the door, and at the doorway, he bowed.

"My apologies for the intrusion."

"Think nothing of it, my lord." Despite the need to send Edmund back to his own portion of the house, a devil provoked her to add, "In truth, I can scarce compare it to an intrusion."

Her bravado earned her another quick kiss from the highwayman. Her heart fluttered anew, but Edmund remained unaware of her agitation. His lips lifted in an indulgent fashion, as though he was enamored by her brave demeanor. He turned away, and then departed, fastening the door behind him.

Marisa sank back into her pillows, closing her eyes in relief. In a trice, she scampered out of bed and locked the door, securing herself from further invasions, at least from that front.

She whirled around at the sound of the laughter emanating from her bedcovers. The interloper lounged on her bed, his head resting on one upraised hand. Her knees nearly buckled from his heart-melting smile; the devilish blue eyes peering at her left her unaccountably breathless.

She could only assume her reaction was the aftermath of her experiences, first at seeing the highwayman in her bedchamber, followed by Edmund's unwelcome visit. Yet she had never responded to fear in this fashion, and it made her waspish.

"What do you think you were doing?"

"Hmm.” He tossed the entangling bedcovers aside. "I think—no, I'm fairly certain on this point—I was nibbling on your delectable skin."

Her stomach plummeted, causing a tingling in regions of her body that seemed only remotely connected. How did he manage to cause such a wealth of unfamiliar sensations? Edmund had never incited such responses.

"You might have given yourself away," she chided.

"No, my sweet, you would have given me away."

"And well I should have," she retorted, knowing she was unable to do so. "It took all I possessed to retain my composure."

"A most admirable feat," he said as he approached her. "I must offer my abiding gratitude for your brave deed."

Marisa's gaze roamed the wickedly handsome man. He towered over her, yet not in the menacing fashion Edmund did. His smile was not a dastardly one, not with that dimple. And Marisa was certain real villains did not possess such startling white teeth.

Would a genuine scoundrel be the cause for the fluttering in her stomach, that unsettling feeling that something momentous was about to occur?

"Have you a weapon?"

His lips twitched as he reached into his boot. "I have this wee pistol, but in my profession, it is more for show than to do real harm."

Marisa watched as he replaced the gun.

"I do not possess the nerve to place the loaded thing into my boot, for I am dashed fond of my toes." His theatrical grimace made Marisa laugh. "And you could be safe in the next shire in the time it would take for me to ready the shot."

Marisa sighed.

"Are you frightened of me, angel?" He lifted one of her curls with his index finger.

"Not of you, no. Had I known of the pistol's proximity earlier, however, I might have prevailed on you to dispatch my betrothed."

He raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion. "A bloodthirsty lass. Perhaps it is I who should be frightened of you."

"I do have a propensity for wickedness," she confessed.

"Is that so?"

Marisa laughed aloud. "I am the spawn of the devil. Or so Father has told me time and again. Unfortunately I cannot convince my father that the commotion attributed to me is not my fault, at least not due to genuine sinfulness."

"Indeed." He twisted her blonde curl about his finger, as spellbound as he had been during the robbery. "And what sort of commotion have you caused?"

"Nothing dreadful, I can assure you. But I could not very well turn a deaf ear to my dearest friend's plea to help her elope."

It was this last episode which had resulted in her own unwanted betrothal. Her father had threatened to send her to a convent for the rest of her life. Marisa had replied she would enjoy the long hours of solitude. Her father had finally won the battle when he had threatened to send Marisa's beloved Aunt Althea to Bedlam.

Marisa knew it was not an idle threat. She had only conceded defeat until she could devise an escape from Lord Westbrook. Then she and Aunt Althea, the simple gentle soul that meant the world to Marisa, would flee to parts unknown.

"I have been quite wrongly accused," Marisa explained.

"Perhaps it is because you are afflicted with other character defects as well."

"I will admit that my quest for knowledge has often led me down paths avoided by the fainthearted." Her curiosity could not be contained a moment longer. "Why are you here? Should you not be on the roadways?"

"I am a different sort of highwayman," he answered.

"Then you could take me with you! I could ride with you, just until I am so far away from here that Lord Westbrook is unable to find me. You would not need to concern yourself with me any further."

"It grieves me to refuse such a delightful invitation, but I fear I must."

"Why? I shall be no trouble. And I shall not sound the alarm against you. I have proven myself in that regard already. Twice in fact."

He studied her for several long moments. Hope and fear mingled together in those long moments of indecision.

He did not frighten her. Perhaps it was because her instincts assured her she would come to no harm with this man. He had had numerous opportunities, when he had stopped her carriage, and again when he had entered her bedchamber. Yet he had not availed himself of any, even when she was at the most vulnerable.

In truth she viewed him as an ally, unlike her traitorous brother. She could not pass up this chance to flee, to rescue Aunt Althea from the dire fate that awaited her if Marisa were to fail. It was not likely the highwayman would continue to appear each time she sent a prayer heavenward, asking for deliverance, so she had to avail herself of this opportunity.

At last he shook his head. "I cannot bring you with me. It is much too dangerous."

"It will not be dangerous, I assure you. I am an excellent horsewoman."

"It is dangerous for me as well," he said. "I have already tempted Fate more than is wise this evening. I must leave, and I must leave you behind."

"Of course," Marisa said, ducking her head, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

What had she been thinking? It had been a reckless notion, one she would have left unexpressed were it not for the need to take quick action. She was grateful he was a highwayman, and thus possessed of the chivalry to deny such a wild request.

She would have to rely on her own wits, once more.

He tilted her chin up with one finger. Marisa's heart beat with the same sense of expectancy she had experienced earlier that night. She closed her eyes, praying he would steal a kiss. She ought to have at least one more wicked moment to support the unjust charge of being the devil's spawn.

As if divining her unspoken plea, the highwayman set his lips against hers. Marisa could not halt her heartfelt sigh. She trembled as he closed his arms about her. She had not been in a man's embrace before, save for those moments when he had held her near. His touch was gentle, almost reassuring, as though he knew of her need to be cherished, even by a daring rogue one step ahead of the law.

He nibbled on her bottom lip, teasing her mouth open. Her pulse scampered out of control, but she obeyed his passionate request. How could he make her shiver and feel overheated at the same time?

He pulled her pliant body tight against his, and reason at last intruded. Without a doubt her incurable curiosity had once more gotten the best of her. Marisa removed her lips from his, gathering her scattered wits at the same time.

She retreated a pace. His eyes glittered, but she was not certain of the cause. Perhaps it was passion, but it was possible it was something else, something she herself felt intensely: determination.

He gathered her back into his arms, and despite her brain's warnings, Marisa felt comforted by this stranger's embrace. She would even permit herself to believe he had sought her out, for she had seen his recognition of Lord Westbrook's crest on the carriage.

After a moment, he kissed her forehead before leaning his head back. His eyes danced with unmistakable merriment.

"Kissing a highwayman does not bode well for curing that wickedness, does it?"

"I'm certain Father would be mortified at this further evidence—"

A loud snore erupted from beyond the door of the adjoining room.

He frowned. "Does your parent reside so near?"

"It is only Daphne, my maid."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Truly," Marisa laughed. "Father insisted on it," she added as she removed herself from his arms. "And I insisted she drink the posset sent on my arrival, as she seemed more in need of it than I did."

Marisa's stomach fluttered anew. Had Lord Westbrook planned on her being deeply asleep when he entered her bedchamber earlier? If so, he had strengthened her resolve to escape, even if the highwayman would not aid her.

"I must leave then, before your betrothed comes to investigate this latest noise. But, one last kiss," he bargained. "To thank you for your brave deed in concealing me."

He smoothed her hair, holding her gaze as if he were about to whisper words of reassurance. Marisa shook off the foolish notion, for she was not the one in danger.

At least, not so long as Edmund stayed away.

The highwayman placed a last kiss to her forehead. Marisa closed her eyes to fix in her memory the feel of his lips on her feverish skin, the intoxicating scent of sandalwood, and, most of all, his aura of reckless freedom.

When he attempted to retreat at last, Marisa took his face in her hands, reluctant for the adventure to finally end. Why did the Fates torture her so, bringing this dashing figure into her life and then snatching him away, yet again? There seemed no end to the heartache now that she knew this highwayman, and possibly her own liberty, was lost to her forever.

She pressed one last farewell kiss to his lips.

"Have a care," she whispered against his half-open mouth. She stepped away before she lost all sight of her purpose. At least one of them still had a lifetime of freedom ahead of them.

He gazed at her for a long moment and then he turned, his cape sweeping out behind him, and left through the French door.

Marisa ran to the window and watched as he landed with agile grace on the ground below. He blew a gallant kiss to her and then, before she was ready, he disappeared into the enveloping darkness.

Marisa strained her eyes to view his retreat long after she knew it was possible to catch a glimpse of him. She finally gave up, knowing she had seen the last of him. She was just as certain she would remember the magical moment for the rest of her life.

When she and Aunt Althea had settled into their new lives, safe from her father's threats and schemes, this evening's events would be the first she related to her aunt. In truth, she would likely tell it more than once.

One day she would even amuse her children with the fanciful tale of the daring highwayman who had appeared in her bedchamber, and how she had helped him elude apprehension.

Until then, she would do everything possible to ensure that she, and especially her children, did not ever bear the Westbrook name.

"So, lad, it cannot be a great deal of devilment ye have caused, racing into camp without the hounds of hell nippin' at your heels."

Jamie, hearty and red-bearded, addressed Gabriel from his seat atop a flattened rock, adjacent to the blazing fire. He waved away the dust kicked up by Eclipse's hooves, his forehead creased with annoyance.

"And I can see it's more than a wee bit of disappointment ye are feelin'," Gabriel teased in the same brogue.

He threw his leg over Eclipse and dismounted with a flourish designed to elicit a chuckle from his lifelong friend. Jamie merely shook his head, but Gabriel could see how the older man fought off a smile.

Gabriel tossed the horse's reins to Gilbey, waiting nearby. "At least Gilbey is cheered by my return."

The lad flashed a cheeky grin, patting the stallion's neck. "So you will not be a case at the next assizes?"

"Only because stealing kisses is not yet a criminal act," Gabriel laughed.

Several of the band of outlaws ambled toward the fire to greet their leader. They were a ragtag bunch, to be sure.

One of his favorites, the soft-spoken Davy, wore a purple striped waistcoat purloined during a recent heist, along with grey woolen breeches that had seen more than a few winters come and go. Andrew, a gangly young man, had claimed a beaver top hat that had flown off another victim during a hasty escape.