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  As Michael watched, the remaining occupant of the carriage descended from its interior to stand puffing in the mire. He threw up his hands and cried out.

  “Outrage! Outrage! I’ll see you hanged for this.”

  For they were all being held at bay at the point of what looked suspiciously like a very old-fashioned dueling pistol, a weapon held with perfect steadiness in the hand of the driver of a wicker donkey cart.

  The donkey stood patiently, idly flicking its long ears, as snow coated its back.

  Michael had recognized the coach at once. The rotund lines of the figure now standing in the road, and the purpling jowls above the starched collar, could belong to only one individual: Lord Clarence.

  Here was a pretty spectacle! Hanging Judge Clarence being robbed by a woman.

  For the driver of the cart was female. Wrapped in a shabby cloak, she stood on the board in front of the seat with her pistol trained on the judge’s capacious chest.

  Michael signaled his man to stay where he was, while he edged his horse a little closer. As a precaution he took his loaded weapon out of his pocket and cocked it.

  The robber spoke. Her voice was clear and unexpectedly cultured, though with the faint accent of the North Country. Could it be some sprig of the gentry out on a wager? Good God! The girl would hang just the same whether the stunt was in jest or in earnest.

  “The outrage is in your stubbornness, sir,” she said coldly. “Now without your excessive weight, perhaps your team may try again? Coachman!”

  The coachman lowered his hands and again took his whip and reins. The grays leaned into their collars. The carriage slowly moved forward.

  Breathing hard, Judge Clarence glowered at his assailant.

  “Now, sir,” the donkey cart driver said. “You may trudge after your beasts until they reach the top of the hill. Then their honest hearts may not be broken having to drag your generous carcass through this mud.”

  “But you will first return his lordship’s purse, young lady.” Michael’s voice rang with deadly clarity through the falling snow.

  The girl cast a startled glance over her shoulder, causing her pistol to swing around. One of the judge’s men grabbed for his blunderbuss and raised it.

  Michael’s finger closed. An appalling explosion of sound ricocheted through the trees as powder ignited in his pistol and then in the blunderbuss. As if felled by the roar, the girl crumpled and fell to the ground.

  The donkey bolted. The cart bounced behind it as it disappeared into the gloom.

  Michael spurred forward and leaped from his bay. The girl turned to glare up at him. The clear gray eyes that looked back into his were dilated in shock. Blunderbuss shot peppered the snow around her.

  He had a sudden wild desire to take her by the arms and shake her. Instead, before she could react, he thrust aside her cloak and pulled her torn dress away from the wound. She was bleeding freely from a graze near her shoulder, but she would live.

  “For heaven’s sake,” she said with fierce bravado. “‘Murder most foul!’ You tried to kill me?”

  “But you are only wounded. How careless of me! It would wickedly delight my acquaintance to know that I missed my mark.”

  “Yet you didn’t hesitate?” She choked back a gasp as he tied up the wound with swift, sure movements. “Is casual murder your habit?”

  “My past is littered with corpses,” he said with deliberate mockery, “though seldom those of women. I aimed for the heart, of course.”

  “So you think I should count myself fortunate?”

  “Very! You survived both my ball and the blunderbuss. Of course, though the guard’s shot has a wider scatter, our pistols have more range. If I hadn’t shot you, perhaps you would have murdered me?”

  He grinned and pulled the cloak around her. White flakes were steadily coating their heads and shoulders.

  “With whom are you working?” he asked. “Your friends seem to have left you to your own devices.”

  “I don’t have any friends. Oh, devil take it! Here comes Gargantua.”

  The earl looked up to where the judge was struggling toward them through the mire.

  “By Jove, Deyncourt! Here’s the result of your radical ideas, sir. The highway’s not safe for honest gentlemen. If you hadn’t turned up, this creature would have robbed and murdered me in cold blood. Hanging’s too good for such villains.”

  Michael rose so that his body blocked the girl from the judge’s gaze. He was shamelessly pleased that the snow was beginning to fall ever faster, blurring the landscape.

  “Purely fortuitous, Lord Clarence,” he said smoothly. “You are not hurt, I trust? I am relieved to hear that you still have your purse—and your life, of course. For you were about to fall foul of a vicious gang. This is no woman lying here.”

  Judge Clarence stopped. “What do you say, sir?”

  “I have shot down a boy in a woman’s cloak—like the infamous Old Mob who robbed coaches dressed as a female. It’s the latest ruse of a ferocious band of highwaymen. One waylays a coach in such an innocent guise while the others hide in the woods, ready to spring upon the victims. Fortunately, the sound of our gunfire has frightened them off.”

  “Good God!”

  “Did you not hear their horses’ hoofbeats?”

  “Indeed! Muffled by the snow, of course, but now that you mention it, I did. Yet we have this one in our clutches, at least. I’ll see him hanged before the week’s out, or my name’s not Clarence.”

  Michael inclined his head. “Very fitting, sir. Didn’t you hang three miscreants together just last month? Yet it’s a foul night. Why don’t you continue your journey in peace? You must still have some way to go, whereas I am at the doors of Tresham, my destination. I can take this rogue in hand and relieve you of the trouble.”

  Lord Clarence shook snow from his shoulders. “Be grateful if you would, Deyncourt. Late already for Lady Fletcher’s dinner, don’t you know. I’ll send a man over for the fellow in the morning. Clap him in irons and take him to Bedford.”

  With that he tipped his hat and turned away to slog up the hill after his coach and servants, cursing as the slush befouled his evening slippers.

  Michael returned his attention to the wounded robber. She was clutching at the makeshift bandage. Her lashes were damp, perhaps only with snow, for she made no other protest. As she sat up, the hood of her cloak fell back, revealing hair that blazed like a flame in the dim light. She immediately grabbed at the wet fabric and thrust it back over her head.

  “You shot me,” she said. “Why on earth are you now protecting me?”

  “Perhaps I like an enigma, or maybe I’m the very model of chivalry. On the other hand, how can you be sure I’ll protect you? Lord Clarence’s man will arrive in the morning with chains, after all. Yet when life presents such a delicious absurdity as a lady in a donkey cart holding up a judge on the King’s highway, I’m damned if I’ll miss the chance to explore it. Can you ride?”

  “I’m not sure.” It was obviously a particularly annoying and humiliating admission. “Where do you intend to take me?”

  “To a snug pallet of straw in the storage rooms at Tresham Hall, the place whose woods are keeping off the worst of this storm right now.”

  She looked at him with open suspicion. “Why should I trust you?”

  “I am ‘a true, a perfect gentle Knight,’ of course.”

  “Oh,” the girl said. “Chaucer? How very erudite! Then why don’t you take me to your castle?”

  “I can’t,” he replied. “It’s too far. But Tresham will suffice until you’re taken to the gallows. You might have thought twice before despoiling the local magistrate.”

  “I could hardly be expected to know that the object of my venality was a judge, could I?” To his immense surprise, she laughed. “Oh, very well! Take me where you like.”

  “At least you will have one last dry night before you swing from a tree.”

  He lifted her to her feet. At the movem
ent, she stumbled against him.

  “Devil take it!” Michael said softly. “If you faint, we’ll all freeze where we stand. Dover, take the animal!”

  The servant hurried over and caught the earl’s horse by the bridle.

  “Now, Miss Highwayman, if you will allow me?”

  In one swift movement, he picked her up in his arms and set her onto his mount. He nodded to his servant and took his horse’s reins.

  “Thank you, Dover. If you would find the poor startled ass?”

  Dover mounted his own horse and rode off in the direction last taken by the donkey cart.

  Michael smiled at the girl before vaulting up behind her. It was a smile guaranteed to soften female hearts, but she sat stiffly away from him.

  “Pray, relax against me, ma’am,” he said in her ear. “It would make it easier for both of us. I shall need to put an arm about your waist in order to guide the horse.”

  “Am I expected to enjoy a close proximity to someone who has just wounded me?”

  “Why not? Ladies usually enjoy my company.” He kept the touch of his arm as impersonal as possible as he gathered the reins. “Though it’s a form of courtship I admit to having shamefully neglected in the past. Would you rather I left you to bleed to death in the snow?”

  “I would rather you had not shot me in the first place.”

  “Nevertheless, I have done so, ma’am,” he replied with exaggerated courtesy. “So please rest against me, and I shall take you all the faster to a more commodious location. And while we ride, by all means contemplate every delightful motive that a gentleman like myself could possibly have for rescuing a damsel in distress.”

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Jessica choked back a mad impulse to ironic laughter. Another disaster to add to the catastrophes of the last few months! Her arm throbbed like the very devil. A powerful stranger was carrying her off to some unknown destination. Her abductor held her gently enough, but with no possibility of struggle or resistance.

  His warm breath caressed her cheek. His indefinable scent tormented her nostrils, clean and male, as enticing as the moors at twilight. Pressed against his chest, her body must flex as his body flexed, moving at one with the horse. A bright awareness flooded her senses. Everything about him promised subtle rewards and seductive intimacy.

  God help her!

  A few minutes later they rode past a gatehouse and followed a snow-covered driveway into the stable yard of a great house. Light blazed from smoking torches as several ostlers hurried up, and a door to the house was flung open to reveal the startled face of a blond young man, dressed in a fantastic blue-and-pink embroidered waistcoat under a bright yellow jacket, who hurtled down the steps toward them.

  “Deyncourt? Where’s your man? Why didn’t you come to the front door? Oh! Whoever is this? Good Lord! Has there been an accident?”

  Ignoring the tumble of questions, the man called Deyncourt swung himself from his horse and lifted her down to the cobbles. She clung to the stirrup and straightened her back, determined not to faint.

  The young man in the saffron coat swept her a bow. “Lord Steal, at your service, ma’am. By Jove, you are devilish white. Are you all right?”

  She stared blindly at the newcomer. Snow settled like swansdown on his blond hair. Since she was several inches shorter than the men, she had to look up into his eager face.

  “I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Lord Steal. My name is Miss Jessica Whinburn. There has been the most unaccountable misunderstanding. I have been shot by this arrogant knave. Now he intends to lodge me in the storeroom. I pray that you will offer me your hospitality and make this lowlife scoundrel apologize at once for his reckless and precipitate behavior.”

  He looked helplessly at her abductor. “Oh, dear,” he said, his brown eyes as round as teacups. “This is like something from Walter Scott. Miss—Whinburn, is it? Allow me to present my guardian, Michael Dechardon Grey, Lord Deyncourt—eighth earl, you know. Also Viscount Kingston and Lord Marchmont, of course.”

  “A dreadful mouthful,” Lord Deyncourt said gravely. “Without question the titles of an arrogant knave—though rarely reckless.”

  Jessica clung hard to the stirrup. “No, your interference was prudence itself,” she said with a defiant grin. “Don’t say I have enjoyed the honor of being shot down by a peer of the realm? Do you really have a castle?”

  “Regrettably I do, Miss Whinburn.”

  “Then I am among exalted company indeed. Are you also an earl, Lord Steal?”

  “Oh, good God, no! Only a baron.” He continued in tones of the greatest respect, mildly contaminated with youthful indignation, “Deyncourt, you will never lodge her in the storeroom?”

  “I shall do, Steal, as I see fit.” The earl’s voice was soft and certain. “Bring me some hot water and towels. Say nothing to anyone, particularly your mother. That is an order.” He turned back to Jessica. “Shall we go in, Miss Whinburn?”

  With the elegant courtesy of the ballroom he held out his arm. But as she let go of the stirrup and tried to take a step, she stumbled and almost fell. She bit her lip to choke back a cry. Nothing could be worse than to appear helpless before these men.

  “Oh, Neptune!” Lord Steal said, his indignation raised to squeaking pitch. “She’ll swoon.”

  Without another word the earl swung her into his arms and carried her into the house. She did her best to relax as he strode through the empty washrooms and into a small chamber filled with cupboards and shelves, apparently used to store linen.

  Jessica noticed immediately that the place had no windows and was provided with a stout lock on the door.

  Without ceremony, Lord Deyncourt set her down on a narrow cot and lit a brace of candles. His skin was tanned deeply golden, making his eyes seem startlingly blue. That same foreign sun had touched his dark brown hair with wheat-yellow highlights. Yet his face remained severe, as if carved on a crusader’s tomb.

  He began to move the clothing away from her shoulder.

  She caught at his hand. “Pray, leave it! This is surely a task for some female servant.”

  “Nonsense! There is not a female in the house who has ever seen a gunshot wound and would not faint at the sight of one. Lie still!”

  He disengaged her fingers and smiled. The smile softened the stern lines of his mouth, offering a glimpse of something ineffably attractive—warm, kind, dangerously alluring.

  “Then allow me—”

  “Hush! I am trying to rescue you from Lord Clarence and Bedford Jail. It would make it immensely easier if you would cooperate.”

  She lay back immediately. Divested of her cloak and with her sensible woolen dress cut away from her upper arm, she had no choice but to allow him to explore the wound. His fingers were cool and firm, impersonal. Yet his gentle touch betrayed infinite care, almost as if she were cherished. Hot tears pricked suddenly—she blinked them back.

  A few minutes later Lord Steal appeared, carrying a tub of water and cotton bandages. He watched transfixed as the earl sponged away the blood. He began to grow distinctly green about the gills.

  Lord Deyncourt’s lips twitched, but his tone was sharp. “If you can be of no more help, sir, than to stand and gape like a mooncalf, pray leave us! You are witness to nothing more than a misadventure of the road.”

  Steal swayed just a little, but the earl had saved him. He blushed scarlet and rushed from the room.

  “Good Lord!” Jessica said. “Do you speak so to everyone?”

  He turned back to her in genuine surprise. “Speak so?”

  “Like Suleiman the Magnificent.” She winced once and closed her eyes. “A misadventure? When I am shot down like a pigeon.”

  “Then you should be pleased to know you are only winged, ma’am.” She could hear faint self-mockery in his voice. “Though I had black murder in my heart, it is merely a graze. You have lost some blood, but there is no other harm done.”

  “Nevertheless, I feel remar
kably like Pelops, chopped in pieces and served to the gods as Demeter devoured his shoulder.”

  “It was a test of divine power to restore Pelops to life,” he replied. “I hope my skill as a nurse may match that of the gods of Olympus.”

  “Good heavens, you do claim august company! I have no intention of dying, but next time would you be kind enough to shoot the fellow with the blunderbuss, instead?”

  “May I remind you that he was the innocent party, Miss Whinburn? You were the aggressor. It was his duty to try to kill you.”

  Her eyes flew open. “And what excuse do you have?”

  He replied with exquisite sarcasm. “Only idle pleasure, of course.”

  “As it’s your pleasure to keep me captive. Is this your property, also?”

  “Not at all. Tresham has been the country seat of the Steals since the sixteenth century.”

  “Yet you issue the orders here?”

  “Alas, a painful duty,” he said dryly. “My ward chafes here at my command, since I have forbidden him the delights of town for a while.”

  “You have that much power over him?”

  She was to have no reply. The earl’s manservant stepped into the room and bowed. “I have retrieved the donkey, my lord.”

  “Well done, sir. I trust the noble ass has taken no harm from his shocking experience?”

  “None, my lord.”

  “And the cart?”

  The manservant coughed into his hand. “I regret to say it did not survive intact.”

  “Splinters, Dover?”

  “Unhappily so, my lord, but I took the liberty of collecting the lady’s bags.”

  Dover set two leather satchels beside the bed. They were both stained with mud and snow, and one had split along the seam.

  Jessica took one look at it. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Then things of a slightly delicate nature must be strewn along the highway. I would seem to have lost my night attire—a minor inconvenience in jail, of course.”