Deborah Hale - Lady Lyte's Little Secret

Felicity fumbled in her reticule, extracting several pound notes from the large number inside. This knight of the road would never miss them. Though her pulse throbbed in her ears, she lunged for the carriage door and threw it open.

“Here.” She thrust her reticule toward a man-shaped shadow. “Take it and let us be on our way. I must get to Gloucester by morning—my mother is very ill.”

If such nefarious creatures had hearts, that story together with her ready cooperation might save her from being molested further.

Or perhaps not.

“I’m right sorry to ’ear that, ma’am,” the highwayman replied.

He shook the reticule. Several golden guineas at the bottom jingled. “Thanks for this little gift. But don’t be in too big a hurry to get on your way again. Those prads of yours sound a bit winded to me.” He referred to the horses.

When he took a step nearer, Felicity retreated into the depths of the carriage.

“Are ye as pretty as ye sound, I wonder?” A gloved hand reached in and groped toward her.

“I’m not at all pretty, and…” Felicity floundered for anything she could say that might deter this criminal from doing what he appeared intent on. “…and…I have the pox!”

Felicity heard a dull thud, then the highwayman pitched into the carriage. The scream she’d been choking back for some minutes ripped from her throat.

Thorn Greenwood shifted in his saddle. He’d been riding hard for several hours on a succession of narrow county roads which skirted around Bristol to reach the highway that ran between that bustling port and the city of Gloucester, over thirty miles to the north. A bilious sense of urgency gripped his belly as he spurred the spirited mount St. Just had loaned him.

A brisk west wind from off the mouth of the Severn whipped the horse’s mane and threatened to snatch away Thorn’s hat. He jammed it down tighter and kept riding.

“I should never have let her leave Bath without me,” Thorn muttered aloud the words that had drummed in his head over and over while he’d been riding.

The full moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale ghostly light over the heath and on the black ribbon of road that wound through it. Thorn squinted into the shadowy darkness, straining to catch the faintest sign of Felicity’s carriage.

Might he have reached the highway before her? Or was she several long miles ahead of him on this lonely, perilous stretch of road?

Thorn did not have long to ponder the question, for just then his horse reached the crest of a slight rise. From that vantage he could make out a small bobbing light not far ahead—one that he prayed was being cast by a driving lamp on Felicity’s carriage.

A sigh of relief rose to his lips, only to be sucked back in a gasp. The light had abruptly stopped moving.

That might mean any number of things, but at the moment Thorn could think of only one. Crouching low in the saddle, he urged his flagging horse to one last desperate dash, fearing he might be too late. The pounding of his heart outstripped even the fast-rolling thunder of hooves against the road.

In the instant he drew close enough to see, Thorn recognized Felicity’s equipage. The flame of satisfaction that flared within him rapidly quenched at the sight of a man preparing to enter the carriage box.

A man with a white handkerchief shrouding the lower portion of his face.

As Thorn drew near the carriage, he reined in his mount, then hurled himself from the saddle onto the intruder. The two of them pitched into the carriage as a woman’s scream pierced the darkness.

The boneless sprawl of the man beneath him told Thorn the fellow had been knocked senseless. Just to be safe, he groped around the carriage floor until his hand closed over the highwayman’s pistol.

“Keep away from me!” cried Felicity. “Keep away, do you hear?”

Thorn struggled to speak so he could reassure her that all was well—at least better than it had been a few moments ago. But his flying tackle of the highwayman had both winded and stunned him. Unable to coax out any words louder than a whisper, he scrambled up from the floor, intent on comforting Felicity in his embrace, instead.

As he reached for her, she screamed again, loud enough to make his ears ring. At the same time, her heeled slipper came into violent contact with his midriff. Thorn doubled over with a grunt of pain.

He lurched backward, only to trip over the unconscious highwayman and crumple onto the seat opposite Felicity. Before he could catch his breath or collect his wits, she fell on him, scratching, slapping, pummelling like a wild creature. Thorn fell back before the onslaught, his hands raised to fend off the worst of it.

“Felicity!” he gasped.

Her attack did not abate. If anything, it gathered speed and force, each blow punctuated by a squeal or high-pitched grunt.

“Felicity, it’s Thorn.” He caught her deceptively fragile wrists in his hands to stay her assault and gave her a good hard shake to bring her to her senses. “You’re safe, now.”

She froze for a moment. “Thorn? Is it really you?”

Some overwound spring inside him fell blissfully slack. “Do you know anyone else daft enough to chase you halfway across the county at this hour of the night?”

“Thorn.” She choked out his name again. Then, with all the power and passion she had thrown into fighting him, Felicity hurled herself into his arms, weeping in great gusty sobs.

“Hush, now, hush.” Thorn gathered her close, stroking his side whiskers against her hair and fighting a fast-rising tide of desire that threatened to drown his self-control.

First, the headlong race to overtake her, spurred by his fears for her safety. Then, confronting the worst of those fears, only to have Felicity launch her furious assault upon him. It had fired his blood as hot as any love play—the physical contact, the heightened passions, the pounding hearts and panting breath.

And now, cradling Felicity in his arms as she unleashed a torrent of tears on his topcoat, her backside warm against his thighs, with only a flimsy barrier of muslin and broadcloth between his flesh and hers.

At that moment, Thorn would have bartered everything he owned for them to be back in Felicity’s bedchamber, rather than on the open road in a cold carriage with a dazed highwayman beginning to stir at their feet.

“M-Mister Greenwood?” a tremulous young voice inquired from beyond the open carriage door. “Is that you, sir? What happened?”

“Has Lady Lyte come to any harm, sir?” asked a second, deeper voice.

“Apart from a nasty shock, I believe she’s well enough.” Chilling thoughts of what might have befallen Felicity sharpened Thorn’s tone. “No thanks to the pair of you.”

“He did have a gun, sir,” the young footman protested.

The driver offered no excuse, but his voice sounded thoroughly chastened. “Is there aught we can do, now, Mr. Greenwood?”

The highwayman groaned and tried to sit up. Thorn applied some weight to his right foot, which rested between the fellow’s shoulder blades, forcing him back down.

To the driver and footmen who hovered outside, Thorn ordered, “Find a bit of rope to truss this black-guard up.”

“Very good, Mr. Greenwood, sir.”

“Tie him to his horse if you can find it, or to mine if you can’t,” Thorn added. “Then tether it to the carriage. We can turn this fellow over to the proper authorities at the first town we reach. For now, I believe we’d better continue on our way as quickly as possible, in case others of his ilk might be lurking about.”

Perhaps goaded by that warning, Lady Lyte’s driver and footman wasted no time finding some material with which to bind the highwayman, who sounded too befuddled to put up much resistance.