Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

Her heart beat wildly. Her stomach pitched. She swallowed dust. This was not supposed to happen.

His teeth flashed white and his eyes gleamed. While her ribs ached with the need for air, his chest barely rose and fell. ‘Now, Lady Moonlight, we need to talk. But first, let’s see your face.’ He tossed her blade aside.

Eleanor’s knees shook so hard, she feared she might stumble on to his point, yet somehow she dodged his hand. ‘Put up…I concede.’

He gave a little ground, but his sword point did not waver from the base of her neck. ‘So, you thought you would have my head on a spit, did you? I wonder how yours will look stretched on the gallows. Give me the mask.’

She lifted her hands away from her sides in an extravagant gesture of defeat, felt the dagger slide into her palm. She flicked it free of her sleeve. The blade flashed wickedly.

His jaw dropped, then he laughed. ‘You think to defeat a sword with a hat pin?’

God, she hoped so. She cast it underhand at the branch behind his head. He dodged. The net dropped, tangling his sword in the mesh. He cursed. Sawed at the ropes to no effect. She ran for the coil of rope behind the tree, hauled it through the block and tackle she’d nailed above his head. The mouth of the net tightened, trapping him and his sword inside.

She ran for her pistols and spun around. ‘Methinks…yer took o’er long, Markiss,’ she gasped. She wrapped the length of rope around his torso, while he glared at her through the mesh. ‘You should ’ave finished it when you had the chance.’

A net. The little hellion. Garrick’s face heated. She’d caught him like a cod fish. No matter how he twisted, he couldn’t break free and could get no leverage with his blade.

‘Drop yer sword,’ she said, pointing her pistol at his head. With his legs free, he could try a flying leap and no doubt one of them would get shot. Trouble was it was more likely to be he with his arms trapped against his body. He released the hilt of his sword, and she extracted it from the net, kindly not slicing him in the process.

He tried stretching the ropes with his shoulders and elbows.

‘Save yer strength,’ she advised, tying the free end of the rope to her horse. ‘You’ve a long walk ahead of yer.’

‘Like hell.’

‘Yer choice. Walk or be dragged.’ She mounted the grey and gathered up Bess’s reins.

Bloody hell. He was going to see her hang for this.

It was a long walk back to the barn he’d found the day before, but she took it nice and easy, and if he hadn’t been bundled like a sack of washing, he might not have minded the exercise.

Inside the barn, she bade him sit.

‘What now?’ he asked as she tied his ankles and fastened the rope about his waist to a metal ring on the wall.

‘I would think a Markiss ought to be worth a guinea or two.’

That he hadn’t expected. He forced a laugh. ‘So it’s a ransom you’re seeking, is it?’ He tried to ease the pressure of the ropes, but there was no give. ‘My uncle won’t fall for it. ’Tis well known that once the ransom is paid, abductors kill the victim. He will, however, hunt you down like dogs.’

She kicked at his boot. ‘Looks like yer the dead man, then.’

She left him in the dark with his thoughts, his growing anger and the scent of hay and horse manure in his nostrils.

He struggled inside his bindings. Nothing he did made them any looser and he found nothing within reach to serve as a blade.

The more time passed, the more fury filled his heart until his head ached. He imagined his captor swinging from a gibbet, or hanging by her arms in some dark dungeon. But each time he got to the point of murdering her, he found himself kissing her instead. More frustration.

What would Uncle Duncan do when he received their ransom note? He’d be worried mindless. He’d probably pay the damned ransom, too. Something the estate could ill afford, apparently.

She’d have to set him loose at some point and then he’d find a way to break free. In the meantime, it would be better to think of something other than his captor if he wanted to remain sane.

The delightful vision of Ellie Brown floated across his mind’s eye. Now there was a maid worth thinking about. She reminded him of untouched spring mornings and pristine golden beaches—all that was good in the world—whereas Lady Moonlight was dark nights and silk sheets and the heat of lust—pure wickedness.

Given the choice, which one did he want? Both. Together in one bed. He groaned as his body expressed approval of the image then let his mind take him where it would. Better to be driven mad by sexual frustration than rage.

Garrick opened his eyes to the sound of raised voices. Two voices, one male, one female, outside the barn. A falling out of thieves? He blinked to clear his vision. He must have slept. His neck and back were sore and his hands and feet were numb. The barn door swung open and sunlight streamed into his prison. He squinted at the large figure outlined in the doorway. Her accomplice had returned. He looked furious.

Pistol in one hand, knife in the other, the masked man slashed through the net and then the ropes. He yanked Garrick to his feet. Blood rushed into his extremities. He bit back a protest. ‘Outside,’ his captor said.

Struggling to regain his wits, Garrick shuffled out on feet pricked by a thousand pins, and every joint in his body complaining. Outside in the dazzle of a fine morning, the woman, also masked, bent over a pan on the fire. The blankets piled nearby suggested she’d camped there.

As usual, her hair was covered with her peruke. She looked up as Garrick sat down cross-legged against the wall of the barn. ‘You walk like an old man.’

He glared at her. ‘So would you if you’d been tied like a parcel all night.’

She collected more wood for the fire from a pile at the side of the barn. On the way back she sniffed as she passed him. ‘You stinks. Ben, take ’im to the pond to wash.’

So her partner’s name was Ben.

‘On your feet, my lord,’ the man said.

‘Why bother?’ he said, glowering at Ben. ‘You’re just going to murder me.’

Ben picked up his rifle, grabbed Garrick by the upper arm and marched him down to the pond where he untied the ropes at his wrists.

‘Strip.’

Garrick glanced at the woman. ‘No.’

‘Then I’ll do it fer ye while she holds the rifle. Leave your damned breeches on if ye must.’

Garrick huffed out a breath. No point in arguing for the sake of it.

He removed his coat and dropped it at his feet. His shirt followed, and he sat to remove his boots and stockings. Retaining his breeches, he stood. With a wary eye on Ben, he backed into the water.

‘You’ll see my bullet coming,’ Ben said.

Garrick didn’t trust either of them and let disbelief show in his face. When the water was deep enough, he sluiced the water over his arms and face. The woman strolled to the water’s edge and tossed him a bar of soap, then she picked up his shirt and stockings, rinsed them and hung them to dry over the fence.

‘I’ll have those back, wench,’ Garrick called. She ignored him.

Although the mud on the bottom oozed between his toes, the water was cool and reasonably clear. Garrick could not help but enjoy the freshness after his ghastly night. He kept an eye on Ben who, while he held his rifle casually, held it with the assurance of a man practised in its use. Garrick was sure the man had seen military service from his disciplined movements and ramrod carriage. A hard man, who would not make escape easy.

He soaped his hair and sank beneath the water to rinse. When he came to the surface he saw Ben alert, his rifle cocked. He stood up slowly, aware of the wench watching from the bank, her gaze travelling over his torso, her lips parting slightly as if she’d never seen a man without his shirt.

Heat pooled instantly in his loins. Damn her. She’d done it on purpose. He splashed more water over his face, forcing his body under control before he could think of leaving the water. Fortunately, she returned to her cooking.

So Garrick made his way out of the pond and headed for his clothes.