Beguiled (15 page)

“So it seems,” he said, and she was startled to realize that there was something angry in the words.

“Don't forget, the carriage will come for you Friday, Ally,” Maggie called. “It's our day in the East End, remember?”

“Of course. I wouldn't miss it. And the aunts are coming, you know.”

“Those dears. They only come when they think they can work,” Maggie called back.

Mark Farrow had reached her. He offered his arm. She took it, thinking that his muscles felt cast from steel. She couldn't help remembering how she had admired him when he had spoken to the crowd that morning.

Sadly, he was not so refined when it came to more intimate conversation. She respected many members of the nobility, but not those who thought they were better than others due merely to an accident of birth.

She turned back. All six of her guardians were there, looking at her like doting parents, pleased and proud. Her heart sank.

They wanted this so badly. They seemed to believe they had created a future of pure bliss for her.

The next thing she knew, she was taking Mark's hand as he helped her into the carriage. He didn't sit next to her, but across from her. She heard the driver flick the reins and urge the horses to get moving.

Then she realized Mark Farrow was staring at her hard with those unusual eyes.

“Tell me, Miss Grayson,” he said, and she regretted that she was not to have an opportunity to tell him that he must address her so, “what did you think of that papyrus?”

“Which papyrus?” she asked.

“The large one in the middle of the exhibit.”

“Ah. Yes. A most unusual piece. Huge, isn't it?”

He smiled. “And the three sarcophagi that were exactly alike?”

“Uncanny, weren't they?”

“What did you think of the very different canopic jars that were on exhibit? Have you ever seen objects that are quite so unusual?”

“Never.”

He leaned forward. “Miss Grayson, you're a liar. You never saw that exhibit at all.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“And I don't believe that's the only thing you have lied about.”

He reached into his pocket. “Is this yours?” he demanded.

To her horror, he produced the envelope containing the check made out to Olivia Cottage.

S
HE STARED AT THE ENVELOPE
and then managed to look him in the eyes. “Olivia Cottage? Why on earth would that be mine?”

“If fell from your cloak,” he informed her.

She shrugged, looked toward the window and realized the curtain was drawn. She stared at him again. “I suggest you turn it over to one of the museum directors. I assume whoever lost it will be looking for it.”

She stared straight at him.

He stared back.

She was certain she didn't blink or betray herself in any way. At last he returned the envelope to his pocket. “So…how did you manage to miss the entire exhibit?”

“I did not miss the entire exhibit. How did you manage to miss the entire luncheon?”

“You did miss the exhibit,” he said. “And I had legitimate business.” Was there the slightest defensive note in his voice?

“I do think this proposed marriage is something we need to discuss,” she said.

“Because I was unavoidably detained?” he demanded in an irritated tone.

“Because I don't believe that we're compatible.”

“Miss Grayson, I did my best to arrive today.”

She waved a hand in the air. “You don't know me. This was arranged. Aren't you just a bit loath to go through with it?”

He leaned forward, suddenly intense. “I know my father, and I know Lord Stirling. If there were not a very sound reason for this, it would not be happening.”

“Still,” she said softly, very gently, “it is all very strange. I have now met your father. He seems to be a kind and admirable man. But do you obey him unquestioningly in all things?”

He sat back, and she realized he was curious. She was suddenly certain he didn't customarily follow any instruction without knowing the cause. She had decided that she almost hated him, but she was startled to feel differently toward him just now, because…because there suddenly seemed to be a difference in him.

His eyes met hers again. “Tell me, how have I offended you so seriously and so quickly?”

She shook her head. “No man should ever assume he is worth his weight in gold because he will inherit a title.”

“Ah,” he murmured, but there was a note of anger in his voice when he went on. “Do not ask me to apologize for my father. He is an exceptionally fine man.”

“He is. But no son should expect the world because of the life his father has led.”

“I see.”

He was silent then, still watching her, and looking ever so slightly amused. Then he leaned forward and caught her hands, startling her. She felt the strength in his fingers, but his touch was gentle. “Pray, tell me, is there another? Is there someone you'd rather wed? Someone who stirs your heart?”

A highwayman, she thought. One with your eyes.

“No,” she assured him after a moment. “There is no one. It's not a matter of wishing for someone else.”

Oddly, even the way he touched her seemed familiar. She looked at his hands. He wore no gloves. His fingers were long, curling around hers. He was close, and she felt a sudden heat. Everything about him was uncannily close to the highwayman. She remembered the Alexander Dumas novel,
The Man in the Iron Mask.
Did he perhaps have a double riding through the countryside, holding up carriages in revenge against an aristocracy that had shunned him?

“Then give me a chance,” he told her very softly. “Let this marriage go forward as planned. What have you to lose?” he asked her. “I do come with an exceptionally fine town house, though I admit that as of late I have been more customarily at my father's house. Mine is rather empty, you see. We possess a hunting lodge deep in the woods, should you miss the forest. Then there are the estates in the north. We have a castle, as old and strong as Brian Stirling's, though not, I admit, in such close proximity to London.”

“You are speaking about possessions,” she reminded him, but she felt herself smile slightly.

He shrugged. “It is good to have a place to live.”

She had to laugh, and she found herself leaning toward him. “What will you get in return?” she asked him. “No dowry. Although,” she added with a sigh, “I'm sure the godparents have arranged something. No title. No great lineage. In fact, all the country is surely wondering why you're marrying me.”

“Perhaps I have been delighted to discover a beautiful spirit as well as a beautiful face. And your guardians do rave constantly about your achievements. There is nothing to soothe the soul like a talented musician.”

“You can afford to hire all the musicians in the kingdom,” she told him.

“Perhaps I'm more interested in intimate entertainment before a fire, in one musician for life, a song, if you will, with heart and feeling.”

Something in his voice, deep and husky, triggered a quickening inside of her. Incredible!

And did he think her an idiot?

Ridiculous as the thought might be, she was suddenly certain he was indeed the highwayman. But why would he carry on such a masquerade? Surely this man had fortune aplenty without the need to rob carriages.

“Lovely sentiment,” she murmured, staring at him.

Did he really think he had her fooled? That she could be so easily taken in by a mask?

Apparently he did.

“And you think any sentiment that falls from my lips must be false?” he queried.

“I don't know what I think at the moment. I've just met you. And I certainly can't begin to understand how you can imagine I could fulfill any dreams you may harbor, or why you're willing to go through with this.”

“But I am,” he said. That time, there was a note of steel in his voice. She frowned, puzzled. He was the highwayman. And as such, he'd conversed with her. Sat close. Danced with her. Talked with her.

She lowered her head quickly, realizing that her heart was soaring in a most bizarre fashion. She had begun to feel a totally morally wrong fascination with the highwayman, but there had been something in their exchanges that had simply…beguiled her. To realize that her intended and the highwayman were one and the same…

But what was going on?

“You seem to be a very busy man. I don't see how marriage can possibly fit into your schedule,” she said, then turned toward the window.

“One makes it fit,” he murmured.

She pushed open the drape, determined to look out, wishing they were at her home in the woods already, so afraid she was going to give herself away.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

She couldn't resist. She turned and looked at him, letting the curtain drop back over the windows. “I suppose I'm a little nervous. My encounter with the highwayman, you know.”

He sat back. “I sincerely doubt he will attack
this
carriage.”

“Oh? He is rather brave…or at least reckless. He attacked the Earl of Carlyle's carriage.”

“But you were riding in it alone.”

“He couldn't have known that.”

“Maybe the rogue had been watching you.”

“I think he is just a bit stupid.”

“Stupid? The man has eluded all law enforcement—
and
the Earl of Carlyle.”

She arched a brow. “It sounds as if you are defending him.”

“Of course I'm not defending him!”

Ally looked down at her hands, determined not to betray herself. She was even more certain now that Mark Farrow and the highwayman were one and the same. What she couldn't begin to fathom was the reason for his dual identity.

She was sure she startled him when she suddenly reached for his hands. Pretending she was reaching out for strength, she carefully studied his fingers as she said, “He will be caught. Eventually. But until that time, he might well attack this carriage—oh! He already attacked this carriage, didn't he? I heard your father had been stopped and robbed. Afterward, the highwayman reportedly donated generously to several of the churches in the East End.”

He didn't so much as bat an eye. He stared at her, and the only telltale sign of his interest was a slight twitch in his fingers. He sat back, drawing his hands with him. “I had forgotten,” he murmured.

“How could you forget such an assault upon your own father?” she demanded.

He waved a hand in the air. “My father was not shaken. It seemed of little importance to him. I think he believed the man saw himself as some kind of modern-day Robin Hood.”

“You are very unusual people,” she murmured. “Perhaps your father was simply taken by surprise and handed over what the thief wanted. If the highwayman were to stop us now, we would have to give him anything he demanded.”

“You think I cannot defend myself?” he asked.

She shrugged. “He is very able.”

“I am a crack shot, Miss Grayson.”

“He wields a bullwhip, like those you see in pictures from the Americas.”

“I can take care of myself—and of you, my dear.”

“I would hate to see you killed,” she murmured.

“Well, thank you for not wishing me dead, at least.”

“I'm warning you, he might well kill you if you fought him.”

“Perhaps
I
would kill
him.
”

She waved a patronizing hand in the air, aware she had gotten beneath his skin. Men—even the best of them—had their egos.

“Perhaps. But I see this conversation is distressing you. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. It's just that…I believe I was very near where we are now when the Earl of Carlyle's carriage was stopped.”

“You needn't fret,” he said, and she thought he sounded quite irritated. “If we were stopped, it wouldn't be simply a matter of ability. I would die for you.”

“How honorable. But if you
did
die for me, then I'd be left with that rogue.” She offered him very wide eyes and a shiver.

“Miss Grayson, we will not be attacked.”

“But—”

“Let's cease this conversation, shall we?” he demanded.

She
would
cease for the moment, she decided. With the curtain drawn back again, she looked out as they passed through the village and was glad to see that no protest was in evidence.

The carriage slowed as they came into an area of more traffic. Staring at the usual flow of village business, she was startled to see a woman in black standing before a storefront window.

Many women wore black, she told herself. Full mourning attire was hardly a rarity.

Yet there was something familiar about this woman.

“What is it?” Mark asked sharply, sliding across the carriage to sit next to her.

“I…nothing.”

“No, it's something.”

“It's silly.”

“Tell me.”

He was close. The pressure of his body was not…displeasing. Nor was his scent. And his face was right beside hers, tempting her to touch him.

“Well?” he demanded.

She lowered her head quickly. Proximity did not seem to be affecting him as it did her.

“I keep thinking I see a woman in black.”

“A woman in black?”

“I told you…it was nothing.”

“It drew your attention, so it was something.”

“She was at the protest against the monarchy last week. I believe Sir Andrew Harrington's cousin, Elizabeth Prine, the widow of the second man who was murdered, was beside her. And then, just now…I seem to see a woman in black wherever I go.”

“There are always women in black.”

“I know.”

“Still, you are amazingly observant.”

She felt him studying her closely. Too closely. He couldn't possibly know what was going through her mind, she thought.

She let the curtain fall, but he remained next to her. She had thought it meant nothing to him that they sat so close. Then he asked softly, “Would marriage to me really be such a punishment?”

His unique gray-rimmed eyes were on her, far too intently. She almost felt as if she had been mesmerized. Then he moved his fingers to her cheeks and brushed over her flesh, exploring the contours of her face. She was startled to feel a rush of heat, excitement cascading along the length of her. She longed to reach out and touch him in return, and she had to remind herself that they had just met, and that, engaged or not, there were rules as to how she must behave.

“I barely know you,” she whispered.

“But my intent is for you to know me very well,” he replied, and there was a huskiness in his voice, a rueful teasing note. It seemed as if the entire carriage had filled with heat. She forgot that they were passing through the village, that they were at long last very nearly home. “I am not so terrible,” he murmured, and he picked up her hand and brushed her fingers with the lightest kiss. There was something incredibly arousing in that small gesture. Once again, waves of electricity went sweeping through her.

“You barely know me,” she managed, her eyes somehow riveted to his. “Perhaps
I
am terrible,” she whispered.

He shook his head slowly, and she felt a wave of panic. She tried very hard to find a sense of logic and decorum. It was true that she barely knew him. She'd had three encounters with him…today, and twice as an outlaw, and she couldn't begin to understand why he was playing such an underhanded game….

He leaned closer. His mouth was perfectly formed, lips full, firm, sensual…

“We are engaged,” he reminded her, the fingers of his right hand entwined with hers and those of his left winding into the hair at her nape, cradling her skull. His lips touched hers in a kiss that was taken but not coerced, seductive in its very strength and boldness, yet so slow and enticing that she never thought to protest. His mouth moved over hers, and she inhaled what seemed to be the essence of the man, in any costume. Never once did she hesitate. She felt the exotic caress of his lips and tongue, the kiss deepening while the heat within the carriage seemed to explode. The deep and persistent stroke of his tongue in her mouth was beyond her dreams of the erotic, and she found herself moving into his arms, her fingers falling on his chest not to push him away, but rather to feel the thud of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath….