Pale Moon Rider (3 page)

Tyrone’s momentary surprise at her candor changed to amusement. “Be that as it may, mam’selle, few women would find it tiresome to marry a rich man rather than a poor one.”

“Indeed, the man to whom I am betrothed has money and he has jewels to lavish on his wife,” she said with quiet vehemence, “but he is also a brute. He is coarse and vulgar and looks at me always as if I have no clothes on. He—he makes my skin crawl, m’sieur,” she added with a convincing shiver, “and if I had some other way of escaping him, be assured I would take it.”

Tyrone looked around at the utter stillness of the countryside. “You were obviously able to escape his clutches tonight. With a coach and two fast horses at your disposal.”

“He is in
London
. So are the rubies,” she said by way of saving him another question. “Both he and my uncle are due to arrive in
Coventry
at the end of the week.”

“May I assume your uncle is unapproachable in the matter?”

“You may assume, m’sieur, that you are my last resort.”

“And a rather desperate one at that,” he pointed out, “although I credit your nerve and imagination for originality.”

She looked steadfastly up into the dark slash of shadow between his collar and tricorn. “I am French. I am an
émigré.
Your country is at war with mine and I am allowed to claim refuge here only through the grudging
patronage of those who fear
the revolution might reach across the Channel and arouse
England
’s common masses. I have no friends, no other family, nowhere else to turn. My uncle makes no effort to conceal the fact that I live on his charity, but he has threatened to withdraw even that much if I refuse to comply with the arrangements he has made. The jewels will provide me with the means necessary to get away.”

“And to live comfortably for quite some time,” he added dryly.

Although he could not see her entire face beneath the shadow of her hood, he sensed a burning resentment toward his sarcasm.

“I am not afraid of doing without, m’sieur. I have done without a great many things for the past seven years, since the night the good citizens of
Paris
marched on the Bastille. More recently, I have done without my parents, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles and cousins—all of whom died on the guillotine. I have hidden in barns and ridden in dung carts while soldiers hunted and searched the countryside for escaping
aristos”
—she spat out the derogatory term with icy disdain—“and I have lain cold and hungry for days on end praying that just once more before I die, I would feel warm again.” She stopped and had to visibly gather herself before adding, “But I am not here to solicit either your pity or your help if you do not wish to give it. I have come fully expecting you to demand payment for your services.”

Now, that was a nice touch, he mused. It added the right amount of sincerity to an all-around commendable performance. A shimmering waif comes to him in the moonlight, appealing first to his sen
se of chivalry and if that failed
,
a
strike at basic greed.

“You are right in that much, mam’selle,” he agreed without the slightest hint of modesty. “I would expect to be paid a good deal more than any one of a dozen other road hawks you might have approached with your proposition. Thus I am prompted to ask again: why bring this to me?”

“You have a reputation for daring, m’sieur, and for success—a thief
sans égal
, without equal. In six years you have never once been caught, your face has never been seen, your actions never betrayed though the reward for your capture is two thousand pounds
—more money than most people
will earn in a lifetime.”

Another nice touch, he thought: flattery. And if that failed …?

“It is also whispered that you have no love for those who would rob and cheat and steal from the poor. That you have often left gifts of coin for those who might have starved or gone without shelter otherwise—”

“Mam’selle—” Unable to hold his humor in check any longer, Tyrone laughed. “You have me confused with another legend, I’m afraid. It was Robin Hood who robbed from the rich to give to the poor. If I choose my victims from among tax collectors and fat landowners, it is because they carry more coins in their pockets th
an farmers and clerks
. As for giving away my ill-gotten gains, I assure you the rumors are just that: rumors. I would consider such generosity to be a rather glaring flaw in the character of a true thief, not to mention the logic of someone who is engaged in my profession strictly for profit— which I am.”

“Then … you will not help me?”

There was still a lingering threat of laughter in his voice as he answered, “I am not in the habit of hiring myself out.”

She seemed genuinely taken aback by the rejection. It struck him as the ingrained reaction of someone born to the nobility who could not fathom a peasant’s reluctance to slash open his own flesh in order for some curious, bewigged aristocrat to debate a point of anatomy. It was not a response someone could fabricate, regardless of how good an actress one might be, which convinced Tyrone that at least part of her story rang true. There were parts that did not, however, and he was mildly curious to know what she was hiding … and what she would do next.

One of his questions was answered when she raised her skirts as if she were about to depart.
“C’est dommage”
she whispered. “I am sorry to have wasted your time.”

She started back to the road, but had taken no more than a few steps when his voice stopped her. “I said I was not in the
habit
of hiring myself out, mam’selle. I did not say I would not do it.”

She glanced over her shoulder and for one long suspended moment, the moonlight shone full on her face. Tyrone had amassed enough impressions to suspect there was a very lovely woman hiding beneath the hood, but not even his finely tuned perceptions had prepared him for the full extent of her loveliness. His breath, in fact, stopped somewhere in his throat. The combined effect of a lushly pouting mouth, a nose as slim and delicately refined as on a porcelain figurine, and eyes large and luminous had an immediate and startling impact on the way the blood flowed through his veins.

“You could try seducing me, mam’selle,” he murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Tempt me. You said you would be willing to pay me handsomely for my services. What do you consider ’handsome’?”

She let the hem of her skirts settle onto the dew again and turned fully around to face him. “Would a thousand pounds pique your interest, m’sieur?”

“Not as much as two,” he countered bluntly.

“Two!”

“It will be no easy ride in the moonlight, mam’selle. There is, as you aptly pointed out, a considerable reward on my head and no lack of men out there who are not above shooting first and asking questions later if they think they have me in their gun sights. Furthermore, if the jewels are worth as much as you say they are, you will be well able to afford it.”

“On the other hand,” he shrugged and adjusted the rim of his collar higher, prepared to lead the way back to the coach, “if the price of freedom is too steep—”

She straightened her arm and extended a slender, gloved hand toward him.

“Two thousand,” she agreed. “And no price is too steep to pay for freedom.”

Tyrone pondered the businesslike gesture a moment before taking the delicate hand in his and grasping it firmly to seal the pact.

“I will need more details, of course. But not tonight. My comrade should be about ready to burst his seams by now, and besides … I would say we both need time to think things through very carefully, for—like the act of losing one’s virginity—once the deed is done, it cannot be undone. Shall we say three days? If, in that time, you are still determined—”

“I am not a virgin,
Capitaine
, nor will I change my mind.” Her hesitation had been barely perceptible and she hid it well by using the time to extricate her hand from his. “Only say where and when you wish me to meet you and I will be there.”

Tyrone almost smiled, and certainly would have if the hairs on the nape of his neck were not prickling upright like the spiny quills on a hedgehog. He relished the secure feeling of knowing his instincts had not been corrupted by the shine in her eyes or the faint tremors he had felt in her hand. She was obviously not telling him the whole truth, but at the same time, she looked so eager, and so desperate, he played the charade to the end.

“I will expect you to come prepared to tell me everything you know about the events planned for the week of your wedding. If I think it can be done, I will do it. If I think there isn’t a hope in hell of succeeding, I will tell you that too. But I will also warn you, mam’selle, that if I think you are lying at any point,” he added softly, “I will not hesitate to wring your lovely neck.”

CHAPTER TWO

R
enée Marie Emanuelle d’Anton stared out the window of the coach, her heart pounding as if she had run all the way down the hill. She had not, of course. She had forced herself to walk as calmly as she could beside the tall, black silhouette, taking fastidious care where she placed her feet on the slippery grass, wary not to brush too close or appear to cringe too far from his side. Arriving back at the coach, he had handed her inside with a cavalier bow, and Finn had climbed into the box, snapping the horses to attention, driving away as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred—as if she had not just met and invited the most elusive, most hunted criminal in five parishes to rob her at gunpoint and steal a fortune in jewels.

She sank back against the seat and closed her eyes.

After four failed attempts to lure the elusive Captain Starlight into the open, she had begun to think he truly was a phantom, a figment of someone’s obsessed imagination. On each occasion, Finn had visited the surrounding inns and taverns ahead of time and left discreet hints that someone rich and important would be travelling the
Chester
turnpike that night. Each time they had set out, Renée’s nerves had been stretched taut with fear and apprehension, not knowing what to expect. After all, there were no guarantees that the brigand who stopped them would be the
right
brigand. Or even if he was, that she would be able to go through with her plan.

It had only been Finn’s staunch presence by her side that had kept her from fainting dead away when she had seen the first rogue. He had sounded like a thief should sound, with an accent as impossibly coarse as English wool. Renée’s mother had been English by birth and had insisted her daughter become proficient in the language of her homeland, but the tutors in Paris had enunciated every word clearly and meticulously, using only proper, upper-crust inflections Renée could expect to hear in the finest parlors and ballrooms of English society.

She imagined that the only time such a vulgar brigand could have spent in any parlor or ballroom was if he had robbed the inhabitants. She had all but resigned herself to yet another failure when the figure of the second highwayman had emerged from the darkness and mist. Her heart had vaulted clear up into her throat, and the sight of him—all black shadows, black clothing, black beast—had very nearly caused her knees to buckle with fright. She had known who he was without having to ask for confirmation of his identity as the phantom Captain Starlight.

Yet it was no phantom who had led her to a canny vantage point above the mist, and no phantom who had listened with amused curiosity to her proposal. He had been careful to keep his back against the moonlight so that what little of his face was exposed was kept constantly in shadow. Only once had she caught the faintest impression of a bold, straight nose and dark eyebrows, an impression that could fit a thousand men without betraying a clue to their identities.

He had kept his voice deliberately low as well, revealing nothing beyond its deep and mellow resonance. His words bore no distinctive accent—though she would hardly be the one to admit to any expertise in that regard—nor had he identified himself in any other way. He
seemed
taller than the average man, but that could have been credited to the combined effect of the standing collar and tricorn. Even the greatcoat he wore had disguised his frame insofar as she could not say if he was broad or lean, muscled or soft.

Muscled, she decided. And lean, like the body of a jungle cat she had seen once in the zoo at
Versailles
. Everything about him, in fact, reminded her of some sleek, dangerous beast who kept to the shadows and struck without warning. Finn had related some of the stories he had overheard the servants telling, and it was said
le capitaine
could shoot the button off a coat at a hundred paces. Once, when he had been challenged by a master swordsman, he had left the hapless duelist gasping on his knees for mercy. He was cautious, deliberate, vigilant, and perceptive. He appeared and disappeared without so much as a swirl of mist to mark his presence, and sometimes—if the stories were to be believed—on nights when the moon was very high and bright, he could be seen galloping along the crest of a distant hill, laughing at the ineptitude of the soldiers he had left far behind.