was surprisingly, unusually attractive. She spoke well. She’d sounded almost apologetic about his ordeal. Then his thoughts stopped, because all of a sudden, the rope round his wrists parted and the girl sat back on her heels, pushing her vibrant curls from her face. Now what? Beau flexed his hands and adjusted his position in order to keep her within his narrow field of vision. She was a little scoundrel, with her rebellious rain-damp curls and smears of dirt on her cheeks. She and her companions were highway thieves, no doubt about it.
So how could Beau possibly imagine that he’d seen the same girl in the not so distant past, adorned with jewels and wearing the finest of ballgowns? How could he think for one minute that he had actually met her, in the salons of London’s elite?
That fall from his horse must have shaken his brains more than he’d realised. Keep your wits about you, you fool. He realised that she’d positioned herself to kneel by his feet now, and was starting to hack through the ropes that bound his booted legs. Slowly he reached for his blindfold.
She turned to him calmly. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Remove it if you must.’
She went back to her sawing, while Beau eased the silk neckcloth from his eyes. He was astonished that she was going to let him see her in full. Surely the wench was afraid that he would be able to describe her to the constables? But then he realised that she’d already anticipated his inspection by pulling up her own spotted neckerchief to cover the lower part of her face, though she couldn’t hide her eyes—and what eyes, he marvelled again. Lambent gold and dark-lashed, they almost matched the colour of her gleaming gold and copper curls.
‘That’s it,’ she announced. She rose to her feet, at the same time slipping the knife into a sheath on her belt. ‘You’re free now, Mr Beaumaris, but I most sincerely hope you’re fully aware that my men have your horse, and that your situation is still precarious in the extreme...’
Her voice trailed away, as Beau drew himself to his full height while at the same time delving into an inner pocket of his coat—in order to pull out a small but lethal pistol, which he cocked and pointed straight at her heart.
‘I rather think,’ said Beau softly, ‘that you’re the one who needs to understand that your situation is precarious—Miss Deb. Give me that knife of yours. Now.’
Oh, no. He was formidable, Deb realised, and not just because of his pistol. Everything about him—his pride, his height and his muscle power—shouted danger, as he stood looking down at her with the clearest, most captivating male blue eyes she had ever seen. And those eyes were full of pure scorn, as he pointed that lethal-looking pistol at her heart.
Deb’s pulse bumped sickeningly. Why, oh, why hadn’t Luke and Francis searched him? But they weren’t the only ones to blame. She should have noticed the pistol’s bulk when she pulled out his watch; she should have gone through everything he carried, except that it felt like a gross insult to his privacy...
More of an insult to him than taking him prisoner, you mean? ‘Well,’ Deb said, tilting her chin so she could meet his hard gaze. ‘So much for your oath to let us go.’
A slow smile curved his arrogant mouth. ‘Your memory is failing you somewhat. I did indeed swear not to set the law on your friends, but you forgot something rather important. You see, you didn’t include yourself in the bargain.’
Deb stood very, very still. She concentrated on meeting his gaze without flinching. Don’t let him see you’re afraid. You must never let an enemy see you’re afraid...
‘Trickery with words,’ she scoffed. ‘Usually the last resort of a man who knows he’s in the wrong.’
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about who’s in the wrong here. Empty your pockets.’
‘I don’t see why I need to—’
‘I said, empty your pockets—Deborah.’
Deb breathed hard and deep. ‘Why? Unlike you, I don’t carry a gun. If I did, I assure you you’d have seen it by now.’
‘No doubt,’ he retorted calmly. ‘Nevertheless, I want you to empty your pockets. You see, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’d been off on a thieving jaunt of your own while your friends were busy setting their trap for me.’ Mr Beaumaris nodded curtly at her little jacket. ‘What have you got in your pockets? I can see something. Stolen trinkets? Silver?’
Deb fought sheer panic. ‘I’ve just got some old books, that’s all. And I can’t imagine you’ll be in the least bit interested in them...’
‘Let me see them.’
‘What? No, they’re nothing of value, really...’
Her voice trailed away as he took two steps towards her—my, he was tall, he was big—and jerked that wretched pistol towards her head.
With his free hand, Mr Beaumaris began to explore her pockets. His cool blue eyes never once left her face, and she couldn’t help but marvel at the man. He’d been subjected to a dangerous fall from a speedy mount. He’d lain stunned and trussed up on the cold ground—and yet he could still have walked into a Whitehall club and not looked an inch out of place.
He could also, she thought rather wildly, have walked into a crowded ballroom and had every woman there falling at his feet. Handsome wasn’t an adequate word for him. She’d spent a large part of her life in the theatrical world of fantasy, and Mr Damian Beaumaris, if he weren’t so unpleasant, surely resembled every woman’s dream of a hero. But at that exact moment, her rambling thoughts stilled into an awful realisation of doom as he pulled out the first of Hugh Palfreyman’s books.
‘Take it.’ He shoved the book towards her.
She took the little volume without a word. He drew out the next one, and the next, handing them to her until she was holding all three.
‘Old books,’ he said softly, echoing her very words. ‘Now, you’ve already assured me that you’re not a thief. So what precisely is your occupation—Deborah?’
She stared up at him defiantly. ‘My friends and I put on—entertainments.’
‘Entertainments.’ He repeated the word almost with relish. ‘Well, I can only assume that these books are part of them, since you carry them with you all the time. Show them to me, will you?’
‘Oh, I assure you, you’ll find them very dull—’
‘Will I? Let’s see,’ he interrupted. ‘Open the top one—yes, that’s right—and let me judge for myself.’
He’d lifted his pistol so close to her face that she could almost smell the cold, deadly metal. Slowly she opened the first book. Please, let it be all writing. Please don’t let it be one of those dreadful pictures...
She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. She’d opened it, as luck would have it, at the most lurid illustration she had yet seen.
‘Turn the pages,’ he ordered.
She
