stumbled back, yet parried the unexpected thrust. He chuckled softly. Was he enjoying this? He had the reach, without question, but he was nothing but an idle rake, whereas she had practised for hours with William every day before he left for his regiment. She hacked at him in a flurry of blows.
At first, Beauworth gave ground to her attack. He fought lazily, his tip dropping time and time again. Always managing to recover before she broke through. He kept glancing around. ‘Where’s your accomplice?’ he asked in insultingly conversational tones as he parried a particularly tricky thrust with seeming ease.
‘Takin’ care of business in Lunnon.’
‘So you thought you’d try thieving on your own?’
‘Like taking lollipops from a baby it is.’ In spite of her bravado, her heavy breathing meant she found engaging in a conversation difficult. She’d tried every trick she knew. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She dashed it away on her sleeve, circling her opponent and taking advantage of a brief reprieve.
‘Had enough, wench?’ he jibed.
Enough? She’d almost pinked him twice. She had the upper hand, despite her tiring arm. She gulped air into her desperate lungs. ‘Not ’til I have yer ’ead on me spit.’
His husky chuckle drifted maddeningly into the night. Damn him. She was wilting and he seemed not the slightest bit discomposed.
Without warning, he changed his stance, attacked her hard and fast, lunging and stabbing. No more did his sword point waver, it flashed in a quicksilver blur. The grate of steel on steel screeched into the silence. Forced back by his superior strength, she retreated toward the great oak tree, which had stood guard over this clearing for centuries. She bit her lip. Had she been too confident?
His sword tip closed in on her throat. She defended and recovered. Again, he forced her back. She tripped on a root, staggering back, her arms wide.
He flicked his wrist and her coatsleeve was cut from elbow to shoulder. They both knew it could just as easily have been her flesh. She could see it in his eyes and the arrogant tilt of his head.
Air scraped her throat dry. Trembles shook her hand. Her wrist ached. The point of her blade wavered badly. Tip up. Tip up. Her father’s laughing voice rang in her ears. Her wrist refused to comply. This man was dangerous and she was running out of time. She glanced over her shoulder, lined herself up.
The Marquess’s grin exuded arrogance. At any moment, he would have her. He knew it. She knew it. He was far better than he’d let her believe. She should have been more wary right from the beginning, more focused on what she needed to do.
The tree trunk loomed behind her. She thrust at him one last time. He twisted his wrist. Her sword spun free. He caught it neatly and effortlessly in his left hand and crossed both blades at her throat.
Her heart beat wildly. Her stomach pitched. She swallowed dust. This was not supposed to happen.
His teeth flashed white and his eyes gleamed. While her ribs ached with the need for air, his chest barely rose and fell. ‘Now, Lady Moonlight, we need to talk. But first, let’s see your face.’ He tossed her blade aside.
Eleanor’s knees shook so hard, she feared she might stumble on to his point, yet somehow she dodged his hand. ‘Put up…I concede.’
He gave a little ground, but his sword point did not waver from the base of her neck. ‘So, you thought you would have my head on a spit, did you? I wonder how yours will look stretched on the gallows. Give me the mask.’
She lifted her hands away from her sides in an extravagant gesture of defeat, felt the dagger slide into her palm. She flicked it free of her sleeve. The blade flashed wickedly.
His jaw dropped, then he laughed. ‘You think to defeat a sword with a hat pin?’
God, she hoped so. She cast it underhand at the branch behind his head. He dodged. The net dropped, tangling his sword in the mesh. He cursed. Sawed at the ropes to no effect. She ran for the coil of rope behind the tree, hauled it through the block and tackle she’d nailed above his head. The mouth of the net tightened, trapping him and his sword inside.
She ran for her pistols and spun around. ‘Methinks…yer took o’er long, Markiss,’ she gasped. She wrapped the length of rope around his torso, while he glared at her through the mesh. ‘You should ’ave finished it when you had the chance.’
A net. The little hellion. Garrick’s face heated. She’d caught him like a cod fish. No matter how he twisted, he couldn’t break free and could get no leverage with his blade.
‘Drop yer sword,’ she said, pointing her pistol at his head. With his legs free, he could try a flying leap and no doubt one of them would get shot. Trouble was it was more likely to be he with his arms trapped against his body. He released the hilt of his sword, and she extracted it from the net, kindly not slicing him in the process.
He tried stretching the ropes with his shoulders and elbows.
‘Save yer strength,’ she advised, tying the free end of the rope to her horse. ‘You’ve a long walk ahead of yer.’
‘Like hell.’
‘Yer choice. Walk or be dragged.’ She mounted the grey and gathered up Bess’s reins.
Bloody hell. He was going to see her hang for this.
It was a long walk back to the barn he’d found the day before, but she took it nice and easy, and if he hadn’t been bundled like a sack of washing, he might not have minded the exercise.
Inside the barn, she bade him sit.
‘What now?’ he asked as she tied his ankles and fastened the rope about his waist to a metal ring on the wall.
‘I would think a Markiss ought to be worth a guinea or two.’
That he hadn’t expected. He forced a laugh. ‘So it’s a ransom you’re seeking, is it?’ He tried to ease the pressure of the ropes, but there was no give. ‘My uncle won’t fall for it. ’Tis well known that once the ransom is paid, abductors kill the victim. He will, however, hunt you down like dogs.’
She kicked at his boot. ‘Looks like yer the dead man, then.’
She left him in the dark with his thoughts, his growing anger and the scent of hay and horse manure in his nostrils.
He struggled inside his bindings. Nothing he did made them any looser and he found nothing within reach to serve as a blade.
The more time passed, the more fury filled his heart until his head ached. He imagined his captor swinging from a gibbet, or hanging by her arms in some dark dungeon. But each time he got to the point of murdering her, he found himself kissing her instead. More frustration.
What would Uncle Duncan do when he received their ransom note? He’d be worried mindless. He’d probably pay the damned ransom, too. Something the estate could ill afford, apparently.
She’d have to set him loose at some point and then he’d find a way to break free. In the meantime, it would be better
