Taken By The Highwayman. Amelia Casey

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СКАЧАТЬ from those who could handle having their purses lightened. Anabel had been whispered stories of famously chivalrous highwaymen from the century before, those who had gone about the business of robbing like true gentlemen.

      She could only hope that the stories had some kernel of truth to them, for the man approaching had a pistol so polished that it gleamed even in the faint moonlight. But he was smiling a little below the mask. Anabel’s heart beat with hope and fear all at once.

      He steered the horse closer, coming up flush with the carriage. Then he dismounted in a smooth flourish and opened the carriage’s door with an even smoother one.

      “Sir,” he said to Anabel’s father, “the contents of your purse and pockets.” His eyes had keenly and coolly appraised their situation at first glance. “Mademoiselle, your lovely jewels. Sir—” and he cast a look of disdain along with the word, when his eyes fixed on Lord Houghton “—normally I would not know how to address a man wearing so many illustrious insignias of his worth. But since they will do me credit, I must thank you.”

      Lord Houghton was sputtering pure outrage coupled with fright at the introduction of the pistol. Now he—perhaps wisely—said nothing, but he did not reach to remove his adornments either. Both actions cost him much by way of dignity.

      Anabel’s fingers hesitated only a little on her pretty gold rings. The brooch was overdone and she would not miss it. She would be brave before the highwayman. But when she put her hands up to feel her throat she remembered which necklace she had on. The warm fine strings of pearls, her mother’s favorite, her favorite, her mother’s last gift to her. If only she hadn’t worn the pearls on this fated night—but she’d thought the necklace would bring the good luck and comfort that she had long associated with it. And she thought that she’d need them.

      She tried not to let any tears show, tried to keep her shoulders straight and proud, while her father forked over thick billfolds and coins. Anabel’s fingers tripped on the workings of the clasp.

      The robber’s eyes were abruptly on her, caught by movement. He looked at her for what seemed like, but could not have been, a long time. Then he said, “Mademoiselle, you must forgive me. I was overgreedy in my haste. Pray keep your effects about you.” His eyes were still on Anabel’s bright figure. “I will ask for nothing more from you than a dance, since you have your dancing shoes on already.”

      Lord Houghton started up at this, practically spitting at the affront. “Anabel, keep your seat. You will do no such thing.” He pointed at the thief, who waited patiently, the part of his face that they could see turned in alert amusement. “Give the rogue your bauble and let’s be gone,” he ordered. “The hanging authorities must be alerted.”

      The highwayman swept him a mocking bow. “They are alert, sir, but overall inept. However, I do believe the question was put to the lady. I did not ask you. Dancing is a subtle art, my lord, and you and subtlety have never been introduced.”

      Houghton flushed, openmouthed. Still astonished, Anabel only just hid her smile. She felt dizzy with the mask-framed eyes on her: he seemed to have ridden straight out of her favorite legend of Duval, who was said to have once stolen very little from a passing carriage in exchange for a dance with the lady inside. But Duval was long gone—dead for nearly two hundred years; they’d strung him up at the gallows at Tyburn, where crowds had amassed to see him hang.

      “One dance, mademoiselle,” said the highwayman again in his thick French accent, “and then you may proceed on with your gentlemen.”

      Her gentlemen! Anabel looked at her father, surrendering a bulging purse without protest, at Lord Houghton glaring in his far seat. Her father did not seem overly worried about their predicament; there was always more money, and he was no doubt thinking of the mulled wine to be had when they finally reached the party, and the fine story they would have to share about rascally highwaymen. Since the engagement, he had appeared content to cede all responsibility for Anabel to her would-be bridegroom.

      She found to her surprise that she was nodding. She put her rings back on and said to the highwayman, “One dance.”

      Their robber smiled then, a real smile, and said, “I am honored. Pray collect your friends’ toll on your way.”

      Anabel had to pretend that she did not partially enjoy turning to Edwin Houghton now, waiting for him to strip off his considerable jewelry. They were all waiting, and the highwayman most patiently, with his gun cocked.

      Lord Houghton glowered at their watching eyes, but finally began to remove the pieces, each with increasing fury. By the time he had added his family crest to the pile under the highwayman’s waiting smile, he was apoplectic with rage. “You have no idea of the enormity of your mistake,” he spat. “You do not know who you have dared.”

      “I am a keen observer,” the man returned. “I imagine I have dared a petty wee lordling who dresses like a peacock and has friends bigger than him who will help.” Then his eyes were back on Anabel. His eyes were blue, made darker in the relative gloom. He held a hand out to her. “Mademoiselle?”

      Anabel bent and scooped up the treasure trove of Houghton’s jewelry. As she moved toward the open door, Houghton said over her shoulder to the man, “You will be hanged before the night is through,” but the highwayman was too busy lifting Anabel free.

      Two gloved hands settled on her hips, and he swung her out and down, then released her. They stared at each other for a breath once he had placed her on the ground, for both had felt the shock of that sudden contact.

      At least Anabel knew she had felt it—a sudden thrill, a quickening of the body, in the moment when she stepped down into nothing but the stranger’s hands. He had to have felt it, too, because they’d lingered together longer than propriety allowed. If propriety was allowed to highwaymen and their dance partners on foggy roads at night.

      He looked back once at the men in the carriage, at their flummoxed faces. “My good gentlemen,” he said, in a tone quite cool and determined, not without certain cool menace. “I am sure that you value your lives, poor as they might seem at the moment. Know that yours would not be the first blood I have spilled on this road, nor would it be the last. Kindly keep to your seats, for the sake of the lady. I do not think that she will like to see your blood, but if you move from here I shall have to show it to her nonetheless. Red is my favorite color.”

      Then his attention tipped back to her. His eyes were very bright against the dark mask. “What sort of dance shall we have, my lady? A waltz? A quadrille? Do you reel?”

      Anabel leaned into a curtsy, trying to keep her hands from trembling. “I believe that choice is yours, sir.” But she added, spirited, “I think that I can keep up with most steps.”

      He laughed, showing even teeth. “A challenge! The night grows more promising.” Into his saddlebags he deposited the small fortune he’d taken from the carriage. The horse, an imposing chestnut mount, had been groomed to glossy brilliance.

      Then the thief stepped back around to her, and dropped into a low, proper bow. Wordlessly he seized Anabel’s waist with one hand while the other entwined her fingers. Though he wore thin gloves, she still startled at the warmth and assured pressure of his grip.

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