Shannon Drake - Beguiled

“I could….”

“Then you must do so,” she insisted urgently.

“I’m sorry. I think not.”

“Oh…” She let out a sigh of irritation. She saw his muscles beginning to tense, realized that in seconds he would be coming for her.

And so, with little other recourse, she ran again.

This time he caught her quickly.

She felt him behind her before he touched her. Felt the wind, the heat and the power of him.

Then his arms were around her.

The momentum of her desperate flight carried them both forward and down, onto the ground, into the dirt and pine-needle carpet of the forest floor. Her mouth seemed to fill with pine needles and the rich earth. Coughing, sputtering, she tried to turn, but he was on top of her. She managed to get faceup, but no further. He straddled her, still breathing easily and, the greatest insult, still merely amused.

She coughed, staring at him furiously. A greater fear seeped into her, for now she was truly caught.

She didn’t try to argue with him; didn’t urge him to get up. She simply slammed her fists against his chest with the greatest strength she could summon, twisting frantically at the same time. That managed only to bring forth his own temper at last. He caught her wrists and pinned them high above her head, leaning close as he did so.

His amused smile was gone at last, she was pleased to note.

Yet in that small victory, she realized, she herself was even more the loser.

“Would you stop?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer him, only lay perfectly still, looking to one side.

He eased up, still straddling her but no longer pinning her so tightly to the ground.

“I told you that you wouldn’t like it if I had to catch you,” he said softly.

“You truly are a cad,” she whispered.

“I’m a highwayman,” he said impatiently. “Hardly a proper escort.”

She became aware of his touch, the pressure of his thighs, the way he sat atop her without causing her pain.

Then he touched her.

He reached down, sweeping a wild strand of her hair from her face. His fingers seemed to linger ever so slightly on her cheek.

The touch was gentle, yet he had seized her with real power and did not intend to let up.

She didn’t look at him. “What now?” she demanded. “Where do we go from here?”

“You tell me your name and purpose, all I have wanted from the beginning,” he said.

She stared at him suddenly, brows knitting in a frown, fear seeping deeply into her again. She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she could not.

“You’re not…one of the anti-monarchists?” she breathed.

She was startled when he smiled, his knuckles brushing her chin with an almost tender assurance.

“No, I’m not. God save the queen. I’m a good, traditional English rogue,” he swore softly.

She believed him. Flat on her back, totally his prisoner, completely at his mercy, she believed him. She let out a soft breath.

“And you’ve no intention of killing me…or anyone?”

“Never, lass.”

“Please stop calling me ‘lass.’”

“You won’t give me your name.”

She stared hard at him. Their position was intimate, and the thought brought a swift flush to her cheeks. He was a complete blackguard, and she loathed herself for thinking his voice was husky, alluring, his touch the most tender she had ever known.

“If you would be so kind as to get off me…?” she suggested.

He rose and reached a hand down to her, lifting her to her feet with no effort. His hand lingered, then dropped from hers.

“My name is Alexandra Grayson.”

“What?” he demanded sharply, frowning with such quick tension that she was momentarily taken aback, frightened once again.

Why?

There was nothing about her name, or herself, that should mean anything to anyone.

“I’m Alexandra Grayson, a nobody, I assure you. I have told you. I live in a cottage in the woods with several aunts. The Earl of Carlyle and his lady are like godparents to me. They, and others, have seen to my welfare for as long as I can remember.”

“You—you are Alexandra Grayson?” He still sounded as if he were choking.

“What does my name mean to you?” she demanded uneasily, afraid that he had lost his sanity. His hands had tightened into fists at his sides.

He shook his head, easing his hands open. A second later, he was smiling again, amused once more.

“Nothing…it means nothing to me.”

“Then—”

“I had thought you were someone else.”

He was lying, she thought.

But she had no time to ponder his reasons, for he reached out a hand to her. She stared at it, swallowing hard, uneasy. He was very tall and strong in the green darkness of the forest. She felt the vibrancy and fire of him, though he was still. She had the strangest feeling that if she moved, leaned against him…

It would be good…sweet. Exciting.

So alive.

She stiffened, lowering her head, clenching her teeth. He was nothing but a common criminal!

She looked up. He was still staring intently at her.

“Come,” he said at last. “I’ll take you back to the carriage and send you on your way.”

THE CARRIAGE SENT ON ITS WAY, Mark Farrow remained in the road, staring after it.

“Mark,” Patrick MacIver said, removing his black silk mask, “we must move, and move quickly. That was the Earl of Carlyle’s carriage. The minute they reach the castle, the earl will be out like a bloodhound.”

The three friends who rode with him as the highwayman’s band—Patrick MacIver, Geoff Brennan and Thomas Howell—were all staring at him. Mark nodded.

“We’ll split up,” he agreed. “Geoff, Thomas, take to the western woods. Patrick and I will travel the eastern route. Make sure you stop at the checkpoint and change horses. We’ll do the same. We’ll meet up at O’Flannery’s, as planned.”

They nodded but didn’t move immediately. “Well,” Thomas said at last, “who was she?”

“Alexandra Grayson,” Mark replied.

Patrick let out a gasp. “That was her?”

“Quite attractive,” Thomas said.

“Stunning,” Geoff noted.

“Um…rather self-assured,” Patrick noted. Minus his mask—sewn to cover most of his head beneath a hat, Patrick was a blazing and all-too-noticeable redhead.

“Interesting,” Geoff said lightly. The son of Henry Brennan, an esteemed member of the House of Commons, Geoff was hailed among their foursome as a thinking man. Tall and lean, with a surprising amount of strength for his build, he was dark-eyed, dark-haired and often grave.

Thomas was the opposite. Sandy-haired, hazel-eyed and possessed of a mercurial sense of humor, he was serious only when necessary. At that moment, he burst into laughter. “You, Sir Farrow, are in trouble, I imagine.”

“Shall we get out of here, and laugh at whatever situation I might find myself in later?” Mark suggested dryly.

“O’Flannery’s,” Geoff said, and by tacit agreement, they all turned their horses and started on their assigned routes for the City of London.

Mark and Patrick moved swiftly until they reached the clearing known as Ennisfarn, where the Farrow family had long maintained a hunting lodge. Though the only one guarding the stable there would be Old Walt, the men entered from the rear, quickly dismounted, stowed their cloaks, found their waistcoats and jackets, and unsaddled the horses. New tack was taken from the racks as they readied new mounts, all in haste and silence.

At last, remounted and on the trail again, their outlaw gear stowed in their saddlebags, Patrick spoke again. “I must say, having seen the girl, I believe I would jump at such a chance as yours, but…well, we are moving into a new world. It’s quite archaic that your father insists upon arranging your marriage.”