LITMIR.BIZ

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hair that was in dire need of shearing, and the other—

      She blinked as her startled gaze settled on windblown, sunlit, chestnut-colored hair, a bronzed rugged face set with a taut jaw, and a worn leather patch that had been tied over his left eye as if he were some sort of...Pirate King.

      She drew in an astonished soft breath. Oh, my, and imagine that. It was like meeting a phantom from her own mind. Ever since she was eight, she’d always dreamily wanted to meet a real privateer, like Captain Lafitte out of New Orleans, whom she’d read about in the gazettes she’d steal from the servants. She would dash herself out toward the Thames each and every morning with her governess in tow and rebelliously stand on the docks, watching the ships pass, whilst praying said privateer would spot her from deck, point and make her quartermaster of his ship.

      Everywhere she went, be it the square, the country or sweeping the keys of her piano, she had waited and waited to be seized by pirates and dragged out of London. She had even envisioned one of them to be rougher and gruffer than the rest, bearing a leather patch over an eye he’d lost in a fight. She even gave him a name—the Pirate King. The Pirate King was supposed to introduce her to the span of the sea not set by female etiquette but by the wild adventures outside everything known as London. A life far, far away from her stern, penny-pinching papa, who had expected her to marry a crusty old man by the name of Lord Burton when she turned a walk-the-plank eighteen.

      But this Pirate King was seventeen years and a marriage too late. And though, yes, pirates were considered criminals, and this one looked like one himself, she had learned at an early age that all men were criminals in one form or another, be they breaking the rules of the land or the rules of the heart. Oh, yes. She had no doubt whatsoever that this one probably broke all the rules. Even the ones that had yet to be written.

      As he and his black stallion rode steadily closer alongside his other bandit of a friend, and the distance of the riding path between them diminished, he leveled his shaven jaw against that frayed linen cravat and stared at her with a penetrating coal-black gaze. His visible eyes methodically dropped from her face to her shoulders to her breasts and back up again with the lofty ease of a captain surveying a ship he was about to board.

      An unexpected fluttering overtook her stomach. She squelched it, knowing that the man was probably just calculating the worth of her Pomona Green velvet riding gown.

      Determined to trudge through whatever ridiculous attraction she had for the ruffian, Bernadette couldn’t help but cheekily drawl aloud to Georgia, “Well, well, well. It appears the row is more rotten than usual today. I love it. For the sake of your reputation, my dear, ignore these two men approaching on horseback. Heaven only knows who they are and what they want.” Because ruffians weren’t supposed to be on this path. It was the unspoken rule of aristocratic society.

      Georgia, who had grown unusually quiet, and perhaps a little too eager to follow Bernadette’s orders, yanked the rim of her riding hat as far down as it would go, until all of her strawberry-red hair and nose disappeared. She then frantically gathered the white trailing veil of her riding habit, pulling it up and over her face, burying herself farther in it.

      Bernadette veered her own horse closer. What was she doing? Preparing for an ambush? “The veil never goes over your face. ’Tis meant for decorative purposes only.”

      “Not today it isn’t.” Georgia lowered her voice. “I know those two. They’re from New York. And of all things, they’re from my part of town.”

      “Are they?” Heavens, he was a landlocked pirate. Even good old Captain Lafitte from New Orleans wouldn’t have been able to hold up his fists against a New York Five Pointer. Why did that intrigue her? It would seem her taste in men was fading quickly into the pits of all things unknown. “Might I ask who the man with the patch is? He looks rough enough to be fun.”

      Georgia glanced at her through her drawn hat and veil. “He’s the last person you want to ever involve yourself with. He’s a thief.”

      Bernadette tossed out a laugh, pleased to know she was being reprimanded. “All men are. Now, quiet. Here they come.” As she eased her horse to a mere walk, to demonstrate she was not in any way ruffled, Georgia altogether brought her horse to full trot and passed.

      Slowing his horse with the tug of a wrist on the reins, the man’s dark brows came together, that patch shifting against his cheekbone as he glanced toward Georgia, who rudely barreled past, veil flying.

      He paused and eyed Bernadette, as if expecting her to barrel by next. When she didn’t—for she wasn’t about to be that rude—he curtly inclined his head in greeting. The stiff set of those broad shoulders hinted that he didn’t expect her to acknowledge him at all.

      That alone deserved acknowledgment.

      Bernadette politely inclined her head toward him, her pulse annoyingly trotting along with the feet of her horse.

      A low whistle escaped his teeth. “Apparently, I’ve been living in the wrong city all my life.” That husky, mellow American baritone astonished her enough to stare. As he rode past, he coolly held her gaze and drawled, “Ladies.”

      And onward he rode, without a backward glance.

      Though he said “Ladies” as if also to include Georgia, who had just passed, Bernadette knew those words, that tone and mock farewell had all been directed at her. It was as if he were pointing out that she needn’t worry. That he wasn’t interested in anything she had to offer, even though his patched great coat and worn leather boots were worth far less than half a silk stocking.

      Bernadette tightened her hold on the reins until it stung. Churlish though it was, it made her want the man. He didn’t even try to flirt.

      Unless he didn’t find her attractive. Oh, gad.

      She glanced after him over her shoulder. He casually rode on with his devil friend as if their paths had never crossed.

      Bernadette paused, her gaze sweeping back to Georgia, noticing the redhead was well beyond the path. Kicking her boot into the side of her horse, Bernadette pushed into a gallop. Upon reaching Georgia, she called out, “Miss Tormey.”

      Georgia eased her horse and flopped her veil back and away from her flushed face. Readjusting her hat, she choked out, “That was disgusting. I felt like I was being groped by my own brother.”

      Bernadette aligned her horse beside hers and slowly grinned. “Speak for yourself. I rather enjoyed that.” There was something deliciously provocative about a man who knew how to control himself around a woman.

      They rode on in unified silence, Bernadette’s grin fading.

      Perhaps it was kismet that their paths had crossed. After all, what were the chances that her understudy knew this landlocked pirate and that he was right here in London all the way from New York? Though he wasn’t the sort of man she usually associated with, something about him made her want to— “Might I ask a question?”

      Georgia glanced toward her. “Of course.”

      “The man with the patch. Who is he to you? And is he as gruff as he appears?”

      Georgia’s jade-green eyes widened beneath the rim of her riding hat. “You aren’t actually smitten, are you? And with but a glance?”

      Bernadette set her chin, ready to defend herself. “And what if I am? I spent twelve years married to a man forty-three years my senior who, whilst everything kind, was anything but attractive. It was like bedding my grandfather in the name of England. He couldn’t even—” She blinked rapidly, realizing she was digressing, and poor William didn’t deserve it or that. It wasn’t his fault he had been old and had money her father had wanted at the price of her youth. “If I haven’t earned a right to a man of my choice by now, Miss Tormey, I might as well be dead.” And she meant it.

      Georgia sighed. “He’s had a rough life, and whilst I chastise him all the time, no, he isn’t as gruff as he appears. I’m not about to go into detail about who he is to me out of respect for Robinson, but he is more or less family. He

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