hellion with a gun. He allowed himself a moment to indulge in the emotion, but then pushed it down again. Anger would only hinder reason.
He waited until the horses slowed to a brisk canter and the taller rider made a move to leave his post in the rear. Brent could tell he planned to maneuver his horse next to the woman’s to talk to her privately. Probably about making camp for the night.
Recognizing an opportunity when he saw it, he instantly devised a plan to get the rider’s gun and force the woman to hand over hers. He waited until the rider was just about parallel to him and lunged. But he overestimated the weight of the rider, realizing too late that it was a tall woman made to look bulky with a padded overcoat, and they both toppled to the ground.
Brent landed awkwardly on one shoulder with the rider directly on his back. The fall had winded him, leaving him gasping for breath and praying no serious damage had been done.
The woman turned abruptly, grasping at the reins of Brent’s horse as it whinnied and violently shook its head to protest against the commotion. Her movements tore the scarf loose and for one moment he had a plain view of her face.
Charity! His dormant heart jolted to life in his chest.
Brent opened his mouth to call out to her only to have a large rag, wet with a nauseatingly sweet smell, shoved against his nose and mouth. He cursed the fact that he had landed on his bound hands and violently struggled to get them out from under him. Just as he felt one begin to release from the bonds, his vision went black.
Chapter Two
Charity was unprepared for the rush of emotions that swamped her as she watched Brent sleep. Trussed up like any good captive should be, he slept awkwardly on his side with his hands tied behind him and secured to his bound feet with a rope. As much as she wanted to hate him, she could only think that his arm must be asleep and how badly it would pain him when he woke up.
The three of them had ridden through most of the night to reach Two Mile and had only met up with Dew a couple of hours ago. Charity had offered to keep watch while everyone rested, in part as penance for taking a captive without getting their agreement but also because she knew sleep would elude her. Who knew that seeing Brent again would overwhelm her so? For crying out loud, she was sitting six feet away from him and the scent that was uniquely his, clean with a hint of sandalwood and spice, was driving her crazy and making her remember their first kiss.
It happened the night at the theater, after he had given her the tulip. She had stood to follow her father out of their box after the show, but he had been waylaid by a group of acquaintances and drawn into a political discussion, leaving her to daydream about the blue-eyed man who had sent the flower. In her memory, she saw herself smiling like a fool as she idly twirled the stem. And then Brent had appeared before her and there, partially shielded in her father’s box by the black coats of the group casually discussing politics, he had smiled and said hello. But his eyes had said so much more and before she could make her clumsy tongue offer a reply, his lips were on hers. It was a brief brush of his mouth on hers, nothing more, but enough to make her knees weak and her blood thicken.
Her father had turned then, as if the first hint of arousal in his only child had summoned his censure, but he only saw Brent, composed and ready to offer a greeting. Charity had stood with her face aflame, unable to think coherently and thankful the conversation had not required her participation.
Which led her to think of their second kiss, the last one, the one that haunted her. Brent and his friends had arrived late to the house party, long after any suitable chaperones had either left or become drunk and loose in their supervision. Had it been a normal party in town, Charity would have gone home herself hours before, but it was in the country, more than an hour from town and she was sleeping over. Brent found her on the terrace, alone and only slightly inebriated with champagne. The passionate look in his eyes had been unmistakable. Her friend Lydia had later told her he had looked like a man possessed when he arrived.
“Can I join you?” he had asked—a cursory question; they both knew the answer.
Charity had nodded, too enamored with him to speak or even turn from where she stood holding the balustrade in a white-knuckled grip. He stopped just behind her and after a pause she felt his arms go around her and pull her close. Without hesitation she melted against his chest and knew the months of flirtation had been building to this. The moist heat of his mouth caressed the column of her neck while his hands roamed her torso before one settled nicely on her breast. That should have alarmed her but it didn’t. Even when it slipped inside her bodice to cup the bare, puckered nipple, she wasn’t alarmed. It felt too right.
And when his long, graceful fingers stroked up her neck to caress her cheek, she instinctively turned her head to find him. His mouth captured hers in an instant, his tongue brushing hers in a deep kiss of possession. It wasn’t until she heard voices around the corner coming closer that she begged him stop.
Brent had moved to stand beside her, breath haggard, clearly unsettled. “Can I come to you tonight, darling?”
Charity could hardly believe what she heard, what he was asking. She hesitated a moment too long and then the moment was gone. He removed himself back to the salon because the other guests were just rounding the corner. What she would have said she didn’t know and was afraid to know. She didn’t see him the rest of the night and the next morning he was gone.
Days later she heard that Brent had gone to visit his mother’s relatives in France before beginning an extended tour of Europe. He had not returned by the time her father’s fortune had been stolen and Charity had assumed him lost to her. She realized now in a moment of startling clarity that ransom, and even the thought of revenge, had been a convenient excuse for taking him. But it wasn’t her true motive.
* * *
As the first rays of dawn began to light the horizon, Charity’s gaze caressed Brent’s handsome face. His features were tranquil in sleep, making him appear younger and less intimidating. The wave of sable hair that normally fell so artfully over his ear had fallen to shield the left side of his face and she wanted nothing more than to reach out and run her fingers through the silk as she pushed it back. She actually curled her fingers into a fist to resist the urge.
“How is he?” Elle’s voice startled her.
“Still asleep. Are you sure he’s going to be all right?”
“I haven’t lost a patient yet.”
“Chloroform, Elle? I don’t understand how you even have that.” Charity turned her gaze to the woman who had been with her since she was thirteen, when her father had hired her as a lady’s companion. With her mother long dead and no female relatives to guide her, he had thought she needed a distinguished lady to do the job and had erroneously assumed Elle was a lady. She had certainly acted the part, but since her father’s downfall and Charity and Elle had started their journey west, Charity had become aware that Elle was brilliantly capable of playing any part put before her.
“Don’t worry, he’s fine. I’ve used it before.”
Charity had no doubt that she had. In fact, Brent woke up before they had even finished breaking camp. The intensity of his stare alerted her and she looked over to find him still lying on his side watching her adjust her saddle. Her earlier bravado deserted her and, suddenly, she didn’t want to face him as Charity Blake. But it was too late to worry about that.
“Breakfast is jerky today,” she proclaimed as she pulled out a few strips of dried venison from a saddlebag and walked
