LITMIR.BIZ

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rel="nofollow" href="#uf2a06bd6-18cf-54bb-91be-d1bfdf1db8b5"> Chapter One

      Sussex, England—May 1811

      The anger burning in the Marquess of Beauworth’s throat tasted of bile and bitter regret. While the horses thundered through shadows and moonlit tracts of rolling Sussex landscape, Garrick fought the urge to turn back for London.

      He swallowed his ire and the carriage raced on. Home to Beauworth. The place he hated most in the world.

      Not even the person closest to him, Duncan Le Clere, understood his hatred of the place. Sometimes he didn’t understand it himself, but lack of knowledge didn’t lessen the tension in his shoulders or the foreboding.

      The pain of bruised tendon and bone reminded him of the reason for his return. One by one, he unclenched his fingers, forcibly relaxing his hands in his lap, breathing deeply and slowly, regaining control. He lounged deeper in the corner, stretching his legs along the gap between the seats, a picture of insouciance. After all, the Marquess of Beauworth, idle rake, reckless gambler and bored dandy, had a reputation to uphold.

      The carriage swayed violently. He grabbed for the strap beside his head. The vehicle slowed, then stopped.

      ‘Mon Dieu! What now?’ He let down the window and stuck his head out.

      The carriage horses tossed their heads uneasily, their shapes indistinct in the shadow of the high hedges lining the road. The sound of their hard breathing and jingling harnesses cut through the warm stillness. Garrick narrowed his eyes, staring ahead into the dark. ‘What do you see, Johnson?’ Probably a puddle. The poor old fellow should have retired years ago.

      Something white gleamed eerily in the shadows ahead. A white horse walking in the centre of the road, moonlight slipping luminescent over a dappled coat. At first he saw only the horse. Then another dark shape, a slight figure clutching the bridle. A woman in a black riding habit. Walking alone? Bloody hell. She must be in trouble.

      He wrenched open the carriage door, leapt down and started forwards with an offer of help on his lips. The sight of a pair of long-barrelled pistols in her hands, one aimed at his forehead and the other at his servants, stopped him short.

      Cold moonlight revealed a black mask covering all but her mouth, while a point-edge cocked hat adorned a curled and powdered peruke. Black lace frothed at her wrists and throat.

      ‘Good God.’ The exclamation exploded from his lips as recognition struck. Lady Moonlight, the daring cavalier’s lady from Cromwell’s time, forced to take to the High Toby to feed her family. Her exploits were legendary in this part of Sussex as were the sightings of her spirit after she’d hanged.

      ‘Stand and deliver!’ Her husky voice, tinged with the accent of the dregs of London, echoed off the overarching trees. The grey minced sideways and she checked it with a low murmur.

      No ghost this. Merely a common criminal.

      Garrick glanced up at the box where Johnson and Dan sat wide-eyed and motionless, apparently taken in by the clever ruse.

      ‘Hand over yer valuables or the boy is dead meat,’ she called out.

      There was a desperate edge to the coarse voice he didn’t like, but the pistols remained steady enough and both were cocked and ready. Damnation, but he wasn’t in the mood for this tonight. A rush of anger roared through his veins, a red haze blurring his vision, his fingers curling into fists.

      He inhaled long and slowly.

      Control. Anything else and someone less innocent than he would die. Behind her mask her eyes glittered. Courage or fear? Would she shoot an unarmed man?

      Dan, fear bleaching his cheeks, rose in his seat. One pistol tracked his movement.

      ‘Curse it, lad,’ the thief said. ‘Yer want to die?’

      Nom d’un nom. Garrick might be prepared to take a chance with his own life, but he would not risk the boy. He, more than anyone, deserved better. ‘Sit down, Dan,’ he ordered.

      Scared eyes found Garrick’s face. He nodded encouragement. The boy subsided on to his seat beside the rigid Johnson. Garrick shook his head. ‘Be still, both of you.’

      Clearly realising Garrick’s dilemma, the little witch kept one pistol fixed on Dan as she slipped the other into a saddle-holster beside a cunningly wrought sword sling. The intricate hilt protruding from the scabbard fitted her costume well enough. His lip curled. He’d like to see her try to best him with a sword.

      She tossed her hat on the ground near his feet. ‘Throw yer trinkets in there.’

      A shimmer of light surrounded her face and body as she moved. A ghostly light. Was he going mad? Then he saw the sequins. They covered her mask and reflected moonlight from her coat and waistcoat. The little wretch looked like a reveller at a masquerade, and for such a deadly purpose.

      An elegant twist of wrist and flutter of black lace drew his attention to the upturned hat. ‘I ain’t got all day.’

      Garrick bowed with a flourish, acknowledging her impatience with charm and grace. ‘Your wish is my command, milady.’

      As he straightened, her full lips curved in a quick smile. She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Yer too gracious, sir.’

      ‘Ah, a polite Lady Moonlight.’ He raised a brow. ‘I’m waiting, chérie.’

      Her smile fled and oddly he found himself regretting its loss. ‘For what?’ she asked. ‘A bullet in yer brain?’

      ‘For my kiss. Lady Moonlight always kisses the men she robs if she thinks them handsome.’

      ‘Just put yer valuables in the ‘at, milord.’ A hint of laughter coloured her nasal voice.

      Aware of the astonished gazes of those on the box, he spread his arms in a mock gesture of appeal. ‘Are you saying you find me lacking? How cutting. You break my heart.’

      She chuckled, soft and low and very feminine, but the pistol steadied in the region of his chest. ‘Now, milord.’

      He put a hand to his pocket as if seeking his watch and cursed silently. He had left his travelling pistol in the coat lying on the carriage seat. Perhaps it was as well. He had no wish to harm the wench. He kept his voice calm and soft. ‘This is dangerous work for a woman. If you get caught you’ll hang, whereas I could offer you gainful employment.’

      ‘Hah. I know yer sort’s idea of work. Enough gabbing or you’ll be joining yer ancestors.’ Underneath the bravado, her voice shook with the tremor of tightly stretched nerves.

      Much as he didn’t care if he joined his ancestors, he didn’t want her nervous and threatening the servants again. He pulled out his fob and dangled his watch between them. Slowly, he twisted the gold links in his fingers. The diamond-encrusted case winked and glittered like moonbeams on water.

      The pistol trembled. She wouldn’t use it. He was certain.

      She reached for the prize, her head no higher than his shoulder as she snatched at the watch with her leather-gloved hand. Garrick caught her fine-boned wrist in one hand and restrained her pistol arm tight against her side with the other. He crushed her slender body hard against him, encircling her waist.

      Her exhale of shock was warm, sweet and moist on his neck. Soft breasts compressed against his ribs. She smelled of vanilla with undertones of leather and horses. An oddly heady combination. He lowered his head and planted his lips firmly against her mouth, pleased when her lips drifted open in surprise.

      The air around him warmed and swirled, sending his blood pounding and his senses alert to her response. Her delicate lithe body, at first inflexible, softened just enough to let him know she was not unwilling. Indeed, her body moulded most deliciously to his. He ran his hand down her slender back and savoured the soft curves of her buttocks.

      Somewhere in this exchange, his earlier fury had softened to the heat of desire.

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