Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress. Ann Lethbridge
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there, thank heavens.
Martin rolled the man on the ground on to his back. He moaned, his head lolling against his shoulder, his brow furrowed as if, even unconscious, he was aware of pain. The strong column of neck disappeared into a crisp, elegantly tied neckloth and merged with powerful shoulders encased in a snug-fitting dark coat. Dark hair and olive skin gave his strong features a foreign cast.
Her heart pounded a little too hard. He was beautiful. Not an adjective she normally used about a man. They were usually either rough, or gentlemanly, or they were simply men she saw every day and gave no thought to at all. This one was beautiful in the way of a bronze sculpture: a perfectly moulded jaw, smooth plane of cheek, straight dark brows above a noble nose. Her fingers itched to trace his features, to feel the texture of bone and skin, much like one might run a hand over a fine statue. The line of his full bottom lip echoed the feel of his mouth on hers, warm and unbelievably exciting. And his voice, with its faint French accent, had brushed across her nape like the touch of velvet.
Madness.
He moaned again. She jumped back. To her relief, he did not open his eyes. Martin had struck him hard. She swallowed. Hopefully not a fateful blow. She didn’t want him badly hurt, for all he’d seemed so careless with his life. Nor did she want to face him again. ‘Time to go. Into the coach with him. You,’ she said, pointing at the coachman, ‘get down and lend a ’and. And no tricks.’
The coachman heaved his portly frame over the side.
Martin went to his head. ‘Pick up his feet,’ he ordered the coachman, who bent with a grunt and grasped the man under the knees above black Hessians polished to an impossibly glossy shine.
‘Hold,’ she said.
‘What now?’ Martin said in a growl.
‘Take his boots.’
Stiff with anger, he dropped the man to the ground. He pushed the coachman aside with a grunt of disapproval and heaved off the tight-fitting footwear. He returned to his post at the man’s head.
Eleanor opened the door of the carriage and stood back. The two men hoisted their burden on to the floor of the coach. Martin slammed the door.
‘Be off with you,’ she said to the panting coachman. ‘As fast as you can before I change me mind.’
The coachman wasted no time in climbing up and a moment later the carriage sped down the road. Its swaying lamp disappeared around the corner.
Martin bent and cupped his hands and boosted her on to Mist, her steady little gelding, who had waited so patiently all this time.
Eleanor struggled awkwardly with her skirts as she settled into the saddle. ‘Next time I’ll wear William’s breeches.’
‘There ain’t going to be no next time.’ Martin stuffed their booty into his saddlebags and climbed aboard the chestnut. ‘Mark my words, you’ll end up like her, my lady. On Tyburn tree.’
Eleanor’s stomach twisted at the worry in his voice. ‘Do you have a better idea?’ She dug her heel into Mist’s flank and they galloped swiftly into the protection of the woods. Eleanor used to love the freedom of riding at night. Many times, she and William, her twin, had slipped out to roam the countryside around their Hampshire estate after midnight. They’d been best friends in those days. She’d borrowed his clothes. And why not? She’d ridden as well as, if not better than, her brothers, shot as well as they did. And that was her downfall. She thought she knew better than them.
Look at tonight. This victim had been wonderfully rich, but the night had almost ended in disaster. Everything she touched went horribly wrong. William was on his way home, his ship due in Portsmouth any day now, and he’d come home to find himself ruined.
All because she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Heat flooded her body. He’d think her such an impetuous fool.
Unless she could put things right before he arrived.
It didn’t take long to reach the barn where they hid their horses. Eleanor slid out of the saddle and led Mist inside. She swept off the mask, wig and hat, casting them to the floor, scrubbing at her itchy scalp as her hair cascaded around her shoulders.
‘Do you know who he was?’ Martin asked, following her in.
‘A dandy with gold in his pocket and jewellery to spare.’
‘It was Beauworth. I recognised the coach.’
‘What?’ A cold, hard lump settled in her stomach. Beauworth? The man bent on destroying her family. She’d flirted with him, let him kiss her. Her face warmed at the memory. How demeaning. She yanked the leading rein through the metal ring in the wall. ‘You should have told me.’
‘Weren’t much time for talking,’ Martin said, turning from the task of lighting a lantern hanging from a beam. His voice sounded disapproving. ‘He’s a gambler and a libertine. Cuts a swathe through the ladies like a scythe through hay, I’m told. The way he took hold of you fair makes my blood boil. We should never have held him up, neither. His uncle is the magistrate. We’ll be knee deep in Bow Street Runners in a day or so.’
Eleanor grimaced. ‘Without money, we’ll starve and what will I tell William? That I carelessly lost his home and fortune?’ Her stomach dropped away, her skin turning clammy, the way it did every time she remembered. William had trusted her to look after his interests until he returned. By forging his signature, she’d spent every penny in the bank. And then, out of nowhere Beauworth had demanded repayment of a mortgage she’d known nothing about. Damn him.
When he realised they couldn’t pay, he’d sent in the bailiffs, forcing her and Sissy to seek refuge where they could.
If only the ship into which she’d sunk all William’s money would return from the Orient, everything would be all right. The stupid thing seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Her heart picked up speed. What if it never returned?
And she needed money so they could eat. Blast it all. She had thought she was so dashed clever. Instead, she’d brought them all to the brink of ruin.
Miserably, she pulled a carrot from the pocket of her coat. Mist’s warm breath moistened her palm as he nuzzled it free.
‘Perhaps if I went to speak to the Marquess, he would listen to reason,’ she said.
‘Take pity on a helpless woman, you mean?’
Phrased in such bald terms, it sounded thoroughly dishonourable. William would never approve. But then he wouldn’t approve of her taking to the High Toby, either. A career that she’d discovered all too quickly, lacked the romance and adventure of legends. If they were caught, the authorities would respond without mercy. ‘Ask for more time.’
‘Jarvis said he needs the money. Got debts of his own.’
They always did, these fashionable men. Michael, her eldest brother, had had huge debts when he died. They were what made her invest in the ship.
There had to be some other way out. ‘We need something to trade for the mortgage.’
‘Too bad you didn’t think of that an hour ago. We could have traded his lordship.’
Jaw slack, her eyes wide, she gazed at Martin’s broad back. ‘Blast. I walked away from the perfect solution.’
Martin swung around. ‘Oh, no. I was jesting, my lady, and badly. I promised your father my loyalty to his children and I’ve kept my word, but I’ll not be party to abduction.’
‘You are right. It is far too dangerous.’ She tossed an old blanket over Mist’s back. Martin did the same for his mount.
‘Why didn’t you tell me the rest of that stupid legend?’ she asked. ‘The kissing business?’ A kiss as sweet as sugar and as dark as the brandy on his breath. Not to mention strange delicious shivers deep in places she never knew existed. His body, where he pressed her close, had felt satisfyingly hard. She had wanted to touch