but the pistol steadied in the region of his chest. ‘Now, milord.’
He put a hand to his pocket as if seeking his watch and cursed silently. He had left his travelling pistol in the coat lying on the carriage seat. Perhaps it was as well. He had no wish to harm the wench. He kept his voice calm and soft. ‘This is dangerous work for a woman. If you get caught you’ll hang, whereas I could offer you gainful employment.’
‘Hah. I know yer sort’s idea of work. Enough gabbing or you’ll be joining yer ancestors.’ Underneath the bravado, her voice shook with the tremor of tightly stretched nerves.
Much as he didn’t care if he joined his ancestors, he didn’t want her nervous and threatening the servants again. He pulled out his fob and dangled his watch between them. Slowly, he twisted the gold links in his fingers. The diamond-encrusted case winked and glittered like moonbeams on water.
The pistol trembled. She wouldn’t use it. He was certain.
She reached for the prize, her head no higher than his shoulder as she snatched at the watch with her leather-gloved hand. Garrick caught her fine-boned wrist in one hand and restrained her pistol arm tight against her side with the other. He crushed her slender body hard against him, encircling her waist.
Her exhale of shock was warm, sweet and moist on his neck. Soft breasts compressed against his ribs. She smelled of vanilla with undertones of leather and horses. An oddly heady combination. He lowered his head and planted his lips firmly against her mouth, pleased when her lips drifted open in surprise.
The air around him warmed and swirled, sending his blood pounding and his senses alert to her response. Her delicate lithe body, at first inflexible, softened just enough to let him know she was not unwilling. Indeed, her body moulded most deliciously to his. He ran his hand down her slender back and savoured the soft curves of her buttocks.
Somewhere in this exchange, his earlier fury had softened to the heat of desire. Another passion requiring control. And control it he would. He deepened the kiss and inched his fingers towards her hand, feeling for the pistol.
The little hellion broke free and leapt back, breathing hard, her eyes in the slits in the mask sparkling with reflected sequins or some deeper, hotter fire. Chest rising and falling in quick succession, she levelled the barrel at his chest. A point-blank shot. ‘Stay back.’ Her glance darted to the servants. ‘All of ye.’
Laughing, he reached for her. ‘Surely we can find a more amenable way for you to earn a living? One we would both enjoy.’
She stilled, those rosy just-kissed lips curving in a saucy grin. She curtsied, full and deep. ‘I think not.’
‘Look out, my lord,’ Johnson called.
Garrick caught a blur of movement at the corner of his eye. With a curse, he whirled around. A large masked man, a pistol clutched in his fist, raised his arm high. Garrick dodged. The blow hammered against the side of his head. A blinding light flashed. He fought descending darkness. The ground hit his knees as he fell into black.
Blood rushed in Lady Eleanor Hadley’s ears. Her head swam. Her heart raced. At any moment she would measure her length beside the man at her feet.
She took a deep breath, crouched at her victim’s side and found a strong steady pulse in his wrist. She stood upright, glaring at Martin. ‘Did you have to hit him so hard?’ she muttered.
‘What the devil are ye doing, letting him get so near?’ Martin’s deep, low mutter rang harsh with anger. He levelled his pistol at the men on the box.
Panting, she stared at the inert body on the ground. What had she been thinking? That he was tall and impossibly handsome under the soft light of the moon? That the easy smile on his lean, dark face held no danger? If not for Martin, she might have fallen into his trap like a wasp in a jam pot. He had to be cocksure of his abilities as a lover if he thought to overpower her with a kiss. A laugh bubbled up. Hysterical, born of nerves and the strange sensations he’d sparked in her body. Never had she felt so horridly wonderfully weak, as if her bones were liquid and her mind was mush. Not her normal self at all.
If it wasn’t for his grab for the pistol, he might have swept her off her feet.
‘Where were you, Martin?’ she muttered. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be covering the driver?’
‘I never saw you start forrard. The plan was for me to give the signal.’
Even in the dim light, she saw his skin darken. Poor Martin. The best man to lead a charge, according to her father, but he made a terrible highwayman. She’d tried to send him away after their first foray. He’d refused point blank. Dear loyal Martin.
‘Never mind.’ She pointed to her victim and raised her voice. ‘See wot ’e’s got on ’im before ’e wakes.’
As Martin bent to do her bidding, the coachman fumbled under his seat. Oh God, this could get out of hand very quickly. She jerked her pistol in his direction. ‘Don’t try it.’
He straightened and raised his hands again. The angelic-looking boy beside him sat rigid, his shoulders shaking, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. No heroics there, thank heavens.
Martin rolled the man on the ground on to his back. He moaned, his head lolling against his shoulder, his brow furrowed as if, even unconscious, he was aware of pain. The strong column of neck disappeared into a crisp, elegantly tied neckloth and merged with powerful shoulders encased in a snug-fitting dark coat. Dark hair and olive skin gave his strong features a foreign cast.
Her heart pounded a little too hard. He was beautiful. Not an adjective she normally used about a man. They were usually either rough, or gentlemanly, or they were simply men she saw every day and gave no thought to at all. This one was beautiful in the way of a bronze sculpture: a perfectly moulded jaw, smooth plane of cheek, straight dark brows above a noble nose. Her fingers itched to trace his features, to feel the texture of bone and skin, much like one might run a hand over a fine statue. The line of his full bottom lip echoed the feel of his mouth on hers, warm and unbelievably exciting. And his voice, with its faint French accent, had brushed across her nape like the touch of velvet.
Madness.
He moaned again. She jumped back. To her relief, he did not open his eyes. Martin had struck him hard. She swallowed. Hopefully not a fateful blow. She didn’t want him badly hurt, for all he’d seemed so careless with his life. Nor did she want to face him again. ‘Time to go. Into the coach with him. You,’ she said, pointing at the coachman, ‘get down and lend a ’and. And no tricks.’
The coachman heaved his portly frame over the side.
Martin went to his head. ‘Pick up his feet,’ he ordered the coachman, who bent with a grunt and grasped the man under the knees above black Hessians polished to an impossibly glossy shine.
‘Hold,’ she said.
‘What now?’ Martin said in a growl.
‘Take his boots.’
Stiff with anger, he dropped the man to the ground. He pushed the coachman aside with a grunt of disapproval and heaved off the tight-fitting footwear. He returned to his post at the man’s head.
Eleanor opened the door of the carriage and stood back. The two men hoisted their burden on to the floor of the coach. Martin
