Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress. Ann Lethbridge
hurried to comply. Garrick followed him outside.
With only the lamp above the stable door to light the courtyard, Garrick took the reins from a miserable-looking Dan. The lad was all alone and clearly worried about Garrick’s departure. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
The boy nodded.
‘I’ve laid a trap for our highwaymen.’
‘At the barn?’
He’d decided against laying in wait at their hideout. Things might get ugly if he cornered them both. He wanted to separate them. Catch one of them out in the open. Divide and conquer. Not something he had time to explain to the lad, so he nodded agreement. ‘Not a word to anyone, if you please.’
The boy’s face brightened. ‘And you’re takin’ yer sword, too. I’d like to see a sword fight.’ He lunged, with one arm straight. ‘Stick her with it.’
Bloodthirsty little wretch. ‘Perhaps,’ Garrick said, holding back the urge to laugh. ‘Be a good lad and obey Mr Johnson as you would me.’
Dan stepped back and bowed with an innate dignity that seemed at odds with his rough upbringing. He’d miss the lad when he left for the army, he realised. Enough maudlin thoughts. He had work to do.
With a nod he mounted and urged Bess into a canter. Beyond Boxted he found a rise not far from where Lady Moonlight had held him up two nights before. From this vantage, he would see the villains when they set up their ambush for the non-existent Beauworth coach. They were in for a nasty surprise.
Clouds fled from the moon and Mist stood out like a patch of snow on a bare mountain. Eleanor edged deeper into the shadows. As usual, her stomach tightened like a windlass and her mouth dried to dust, but tonight her nervousness was pitched far higher than normal. She missed the stalwart Martin. She tightened her grip on Mist’s reins.
The horse pricked his ears, flicking them in the direction of the field on the other side of the hedge. She held her breath, listening. A rustle of leaves, barely noticeable above the sound of the wind in the trees. A crack of a twig. It had to be him.
A rider broke through a gap in the hedge at the same moment the pitiless moon chose to reappear. Bad luck for him. ‘Now, Mist. Fly.’ She crouched over his neck and they galloped for the woods.
After a few minutes of dodging trees and bushes, she reined in. The pursuit crashed through the undergrowth behind her. She smiled. He’d taken the bait. A heady rush of excitement filled her veins, buzzing in her ears. He’d come alone, too, so she didn’t have to worry about leading more than him astray.
She guided the horse off the well-worn path and into the tangled bushes. Low branches kept her ducking, but Mist required only the lightest touch as he followed the path she’d mapped out earlier in the day.
The clearing came up fast. She stopped and glanced back. Nothing. No sound or sight of anyone. Dash it. She’d been too clever and managed to lose him. She started to turn back.
‘Hold.’ The harsh word came from in front, not behind.
She whipped her head around. There, across the moon-drenched space, pistol drawn, he waited, his horse breathing hard. He’d circled around instead of following. Her heart thundered, her mind scrambled with the alteration to her plan. She gulped a breath. Things would go very ill if she made a mistake.
‘You may observe,’ the Marquess said coolly, ‘that I have my pistol trained on you. So I suggest it is your turn to stand and deliver.’
She walked Mist into the middle of the clearing.
‘Throw down your pistols,’ he demanded.
No fool, then. She pulled them from their holsters one at a time and tossed them at his horse’s front hoofs. The animal rolled its eyes, but remained still. Damn.
‘Dismount,’ he said, his voice cold, his hand steady.
A chill ran down her spine. He looked dangerously angry. She turned, preparing to dismount with Mist between them.
‘Oh, no, you don’t. Get off on this side or I’ll shoot the horse.’
Blast. He obviously knew that old cavalry trick. She bit her lip. She had no choice but to obey. Cautiously, she slipped out of the saddle, retaining her hold on Mist’s bridle.
Still mounted, the Marquess walked his horse to stand directly before her. The big-boned mare towered over her and Mist. Raising her gaze, Eleanor watched his eyes, ready to drop to the ground if he decided to fire. You didn’t grow up with older brothers and a soldier father without learning something useful.
Atop his horse, his face stern, he looked like some avenging god of war. Beautiful in the way of a cold marble statue.
‘Well, wench, we meet again.’ His gazed raked her from her head to her heels. ‘An interesting costume. You don’t expect me to believe you are a boy, do you?’
She’d opted for the freedom of breeches for the work she had to do tonight. She cast him the saucy half-smile she’d copied from Lizzie, the upstairs maid at Castlefield. A lass with an eye for the lads. ‘Well, well, if it ain’t the Markiss Boworthy. So we meets agin’, milord. Come for another kiss, ’ave yer?’
Casually, he gathered his reins in one hand and prepared to dismount. The nodcock. Underestimating her because she was female. She tensed. As his foot touched the ground, his body turned and his pistol moved off target. She tore her sword from the scabbard on her saddle and clutched the blade in her left hand. As he squared up, she lunged. A swift arc with the hilt knocked his pistol up. It exploded harmlessly into the air. A flick and she tossed the sword into her right hand, ready to run him through.
‘Stand back,’ she ordered.
Steel hissed as he drew a sword from the scabbard at his side. He was carrying a sword? Only the military carried them these days, or those with nefarious intent. He must have noticed hers on her saddle the other evening. Damn it. Now what?
He must have seen her surprise, because he laughed. ‘Nice move, wench, but I am an expert swordsman. You might as well give up now.’
The way he said swordsman, almost like a caress, sent a shiver down her spine. Arrogant man. She would dashed well show him a thing or two before she presented her nice little surprise. ‘Damn yer eyes, Markiss.’ She slashed at him, testing his skill.
He stumbled back, yet parried the unexpected thrust. He chuckled softly. Was he enjoying this? He had the reach, without question, but he was nothing but an idle rake, whereas she had practised for hours with William every day before he left for his regiment. She hacked at him in a flurry of blows.
At first, Beauworth gave ground to her attack. He fought lazily, his tip dropping time and time again. Always managing to recover before she broke through. He kept glancing around. ‘Where’s your accomplice?’ he asked in insultingly conversational tones as he parried a particularly tricky thrust with seeming ease.
‘Takin’ care of business in Lunnon.’
‘So you thought you’d try thieving on your own?’
‘Like taking lollipops from a baby it is.’ In spite of her bravado, her heavy breathing meant she found engaging in a conversation difficult. She’d tried every trick she knew. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She dashed it away on her sleeve, circling her opponent and taking advantage of a brief reprieve.
‘Had enough, wench?’ he jibed.
Enough? She’d almost pinked him twice. She had the upper hand, despite her tiring arm. She gulped air into her desperate lungs. ‘Not ’til I have yer ’ead on me spit.’
His husky chuckle drifted maddeningly into the night. Damn him. She was wilting and he seemed not the slightest bit discomposed.
Without warning, he changed his stance, attacked her hard and fast, lunging and stabbing. No more did his sword point waver, it flashed