looked nervous now. ‘He’s still breathing and everything. We checked!’
Deb sank to her knees beside the prone man and ran her hands swiftly over his arms and shoulders.
As far as she could tell, he didn’t appear to be badly hurt. None of his limbs looked twisted or broken. There was no blood anywhere, and when she put her fingers to his wrist, his pulse was strong and even. But—oh, God, what would happen when he regained his senses and found himself trussed up tight as a turkey? And—who on earth was he?
Feeling even more flustered after touching him—goodness, he was big, he was powerful—she reached gingerly into his coat pocket, where she found a gold fob watch on a chain. She turned it carefully in her fingers. It looked old and very valuable, and on the back was a faded inscription. She held it up to catch the murky daylight and read the name aloud: Damian Beaumaris.
Whoever Damian Beaumaris might be, Deb knew with absolute certainty that they’d just made themselves a new and extremely dangerous enemy.
* * *
Beau was aware of aches and pains in every limb. His head hurt as if someone had swung a hammer at it. The last thing he remembered was riding through Ashendale Forest on Palfreyman’s horse, making good speed, until he’d spotted, too late, a length of cord stretched right across his path. And now he found that he was blindfolded, he was well and truly tied up, and he was lying on the cold, muddy ground.
Muttered voices drifted across the clearing, and the owners of those voices sounded mighty worried. So they should be. Beau’s jaw was tightly set. Then he frowned again, because some other faint memory lingered in his mind: a memory of the lightest of hands fluttering over his clothing, a finger touching his wrist. He thought he’d inhaled the delicate scent of lemons, and remembered a woman’s soft hair brush his cheek...
And he needed to pull his thoroughly scattered wits together this minute—because the voices were moving closer. He lay very still, assessing his predicament—bound, blindfolded and half-stunned—not good. His borrowed horse had been deliberately tripped up, and Beau had been thrown; but seconds before he fell, he’d glimpsed two men peering at him from the undergrowth—a middle-aged man in a scruffy red coat and black hat, and a callow fair-haired youth. It must be one of that pair of scoundrels—he guessed the older one—whom he heard now, muttering anxiously, ‘But that bay horse. We really thought it was Palfreyman’s, you see.’
That was interesting enough; but the next voice Beau heard set his senses into full alert. Because it belonged to a girl, and she sounded very, very anxious—with good reason, Beau reflected grimly. ‘Francis Calladine,’ she declared, ‘if I hear your excuses repeated once more, I swear I’ll tie you up with your own ropes. This man is not Palfreyman. His name is Damian Beaumaris. And what, in heaven’s name, are we to do with him?’
A case of mistaken identity, then—they’d thought he was Palfreyman, who it appeared was no friend of theirs. One thing was for certain—he was, at the moment, completely in their power. But Beau did not intend that particular circumstance to last for much longer.
He heard the voice of the older man again—he sounded just as worried as the girl. ‘Perhaps we should untie him and leave quickly, Deborah. When he comes round, he’ll just imagine he was thrown by accident. He won’t even know he was our prisoner.’
‘But what if he doesn’t come round?’ The girl again—Deborah. Beau envisaged his trio of captors scratching their heads. ‘What if he’s truly hurt, Francis?’ she went on. ‘What if we leave him here and—he doesn’t recover?’
In the silence that ensued, Beau found himself occupied by a thought that had been forming in his mind since the moment he heard the girl’s voice.
Most of the females who travelled with bands of highway robbers were as rough as their menfolk. But something wasn’t quite right about this one. She spoke well. She had an educated voice... He stirred as far as his bonds would allow, and let out a slight groan. Almost immediately, as he’d hoped, he heard the girl gasping, ‘Oh, no. Did you hear that? He is in pain!’ There was a rustle of clothes close to his ear, and once more he inhaled the faint lemon scent of soap and freshly washed hair as the girl bent down and placed her hand on his forehead; a cool, tender hand...
She’ll be ugly as sin, he warned himself. She was bound to be a painted, snaggle-toothed whore who had been bedded by the lot of them. Yet she spoke in a way that would be more at home in the drawing rooms of London than amongst a nest of vagabonds. He chided himself mentally. Whatever she was up to, no female was going to get the better of him. He lay very still, feigning unconsciousness once more.
‘We really should be off.’ The older man’s voice was taut with anxiety. ‘We could perhaps ride back to the nearest inn and mention that we glimpsed a stray horse in the forest. Then they would send someone out to investigate...’
‘We cannot leave him while he’s unconscious!’ The girl’s voice was authoritative. ‘This is my plan, Francis. I’m going to loosen our prisoner’s ropes and wait for him to regain his senses. As soon as he starts to do so, and we can be sure that he’s going to be all right, we’ll ride off as quickly as we can.’
‘But what if he gets on his horse and gallops after us?’ This was the younger lad speaking. ‘That bay of his could catch ours in no time!’
The girl had an answer for that as well. ‘We’ll lead his horse with us—just for a half a mile or so. Francis, can you go and see to the horses now? And, Luke, it’s really important that you remove every trace of our stay here—for example, the remains of that campfire you and Francis lit over there.’
Luke said suddenly, ‘I left some of my markers in case you had trouble finding us, Miss Deb.’
Deb frowned. ‘Markers?’
‘The sign for the Lambeth Players,’ explained Luke. ‘You know—the initials L and P, made with twigs. I made a trail, from the track to this clearing. I was only trying to help!’
‘You idiot, Luke,’ said Francis.
‘You’d better go and remove them,’ said Deb in exasperation. Luke and his games. ‘Every single one. And as soon as you’ve checked round everywhere, we’ll leave—but only when I’m sure this man is going to be all right, do you understand?’
* * *
They left, and Deb walked slowly towards their prisoner. Only now that Luke and Francis were out of sight did she feel that she could allow herself to give way to true, sick anxiety.
She dropped to her knees at the man’s side, noting that he lay as still as ever in his bonds apart from the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest—thank God he was still breathing steadily. She rapidly tried to summarise what she knew about him, which wasn’t a great deal, except that his name was Damian Beaumaris, and he was rich—she could tell that just at a glance, not only because of his fine attire and gold pocket watch, but because of that indefinable air of arrogance the rich had, yes, even when they were tied up on the ground and unconscious.
Luke and Francis had only been trying to help her, she reminded herself rather desperately. And they’d been right, in that if he had been Palfreyman, and had met her climbing back over his boundary wall, he would have seized her on the spot, found the books on her, and her plan would have been ruined. She could have been in dire trouble indeed...
And
