The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (12 page)

Bucky set down the revolver and accepted the tome with all the solemnity he could muster.
The Adventures of Lightning Jack of the Moor
. “You wish me to read a book about a highwayman?”

Her tawny brows drew together. “Not just read it. I want you to study it.”

“To what end? I already stand to inherit a munitions factory and several breweries.
Highway robbery is a guaranteed feature of my existence as it is.”

Poppy gave a huge sigh. “If you want to win Imogen’s hand, you have to give her a reason. She needs the strength to resist Mother’s insistence that she marry a dolt like Captain Smythe. Faced with odds like that, it might help if you are just a bit dramatic, even unreasonable. Sanity is not always an advantage.”

He wanted to say that it was a rare commodity, but bit his tongue. He was too curious as to where Poppy’s argument might lead.

The girl gave a toss of her curling locks. “You can be daring and original. There was the shoe-gluing incident. The exploding piano. The barrage of rotten fruit.”

“I outgrew that phase when I was your age,” Bucky replied gently. At least, he hoped he had. Mostly, anyhow. With a few exceptions.

“Forget being a sensible grown-up. Let Imogen know you’re willing to risk all for her. Be daring. Captain Smythe has his fancy coat and shiny braid.” Poppy drew herself up. “Eclipse those pompous buttons.”

Eclipse the pompous buttons. Now there’s a war cry if I’ve ever heard one
. However, the girl had zeroed in on Bucky’s own misgivings. The plain truth of it was that Imogen needed a sign that he was utterly committed to their love. Maybe he did need to go beyond being plain Bucky Penner.

Poppy had marked a page in the book with a slip of paper. Full of trepidation, he flipped to that spot. It showed an engraving of a masked man on horseback, riding hell-for-leather across a windswept moor. The rider clutched a curvaceous damsel in a fluttery nightdress. The caption read,
The Abduction
.

It was typical schoolgirl stuff. “I thought you preferred knights in shining armor.”

Poppy gave him a superior stare. “All women occasionally enjoy a whiff of brimstone. Show your inner devil. It overcomes the wind-up ducks.”

The only thing that saved Bucky from blushing was the fact that he had three sisters of his own. He’d run out of embarrassment by age nine. “Well, then.”

“Yes?”

He had no idea of what he had intended to say. Quite unexpectedly, his mind was otherwise occupied—and that was where Poppy had completely understood Buckingham Penner. He might have been a reasonable man, but he had an ambitious imagination—and now his mind was churning with fabulous possibilities.

Among other things, he rather fancied himself in a mask.

* * *

The next afternoon, Imogen escaped the house for a long walk before she had to endure the advent of Captain Smythe and Mr. Whitlock. Whitlock was dull as a drizzling rain but Smythe was worse. She’d found his vanity amusing once, but he was a taste that reminded her of marzipan. A nibble was good. An entire mouthful made her gag.

Lost in unpleasant thoughts, she turned at the sound of galloping hooves behind her. At first the tall hedges on either side of the country lane blocked her view, but then she saw it—a huge black horse, neck arched and legs churning, snorting like a train at full steam. Her first impulse was to admire the beast—the play of light on its glossy black coat, the whipping mane, and the proud arch of its neck. Then it dawned on her that the horse was charging right in her direction.

A surge of alarm made her stumble backward, but in an instant she dragged her wits together and dove for the bushes. Only when she was pressed into the bristling mass of the boxwood did she turn and look for the rider bent low over the neck of his mount. He had the seat of an expert horseman—and a long, dark cloak and mask.

Imogen let out a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh. A highwayman? Didn’t they go in for moors and moonlit nights?

It was the only thought she managed before the figure bore down on his speeding mount. The animal snorted, hooves churning as the rider’s caped cloak fluttered behind him. Now growing truly afraid, she shrank further into the hedge, wincing as sharp twigs poked through the muslin of her dress.

Then, slowing the horse, he leaned from his saddle and seized her by the waist, heaving her onto his mount with astonishing strength. She landed with a wheeze, narrowly avoiding a bruising by landing more on the rider than on the pommel. Half-winded, Imogen squirmed in an attempt to slide off the horse’s back, but the rider was monstrously powerful. He dragged her close, gripping her to his hard chest with one muscular arm, while the other gathered up the reins. Then he kicked the giant black horse back into a canter and carried her away.

Imogen shrieked her terror, but there was no one to hear. In moments, they’d left the quiet lane that ran beside Horne Hill, and were galloping across the rolling green fields.

Her mind rushed forward frantically. What did her abductor want? Ransom? A slave? To kill her and leave her entrails decorating some lonely woodland tree? Her thoughts sputtered, veering away from that gruesome image while her heart beat so fast her chest hurt.

Imogen swallowed hard, finding her mouth gluey and sour with fear. The scent of the rider—horse, male sweat and some limey smell that was probably shaving balm—seemed oddly
familiar, but her mind wouldn’t hold on to that thought. And she wanted to cry, but had gone past simple tears. Her eyes felt scoured by the wind rushing into her face.

She opted for outrage. “Who are you?” she demanded sharply.

He didn’t answer. Imogen tried elbowing him in the stomach, but that only made him grip her tighter—too tight to even bite him properly. She tried screaming again, but there was still no one in sight. The sun was high and hot and anyone with sense would be in the shade.

Which was, in fact, where they were going. A stream ran through a dip in the land, and a lush stand of trees arched over the water. A flock of wild ducks flew up as the horse thundered close. The rider reined in the horse, holding Imogen tight as it reared with a flourish of hooves. That was pure showmanship and only succeeded in making her more angry.

The man swung from the saddle, leaping lightly to the soft green grass. As he reached to lift Imogen from the saddle, she made a grab for the reins, but he caught her and pulled her down to stand before him.

“Who are you?” she demanded again, trying to flick her skirts into some sort of order.

“I am a thief,” he announced, his voice deep and resonant.

“I’m not carrying any money.”

“It’s not gold that I desire.”

The words seized her with terror, even if they did sound like a quote from a particularly bad book. Imogen glanced around frantically. She wasn’t the robust kind of girl who could climb walls or leap ditches. She couldn’t even run very fast—not that anyone could in a corset and bustle—but she was no pushover. She pulled the pin from her hat, arming herself with five inches of sharp steel. The brown eyes behind the mask widened, but with a flick of his hand he knocked the pin away.

Coppery fear flooded her mouth. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“You should have thought of that before the hat pin.” The words wavered in the air between them for a long moment, and then his posture relaxed. “Oh, bother this anyway.”

Something in the voice caught her attention. Then she blinked back her fear to examine his features—something that hadn’t been possible while hurtling along on horseback. The mask was no true concealment. She knew the slight cleft in the chin, the sensual set of his mouth, the thick brown hair. “Bucky?”

He sketched a bow so graceful that it would have done a Renaissance courtier proud. “You have penetrated my disguise, fair lady.”

“Of all the idiotic pranks!” Furious, she sucked in air, fighting the red spots of pure anger clouding her vision. As he rose from the bow, she kicked him in the shin. It couldn’t have been very hard, given the encumbrance of her clothing, but it caught him by surprise.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, loudly enough that the horse looked up from cropping a tasty patch of grass. Bucky straightened, eyes cautious.

Imogen could feel an angry heat flooding her face. Her knees were shaking with the aftermath of her terror, and her stomach ached from tension. She felt like a shrew, but couldn’t stop the rush of annoyance welling from deep inside her. “What do you think you were about, frightening me half to death like that? And take off that ridiculous mask.”

“As you wish.” He untied the mask, stuffing it into the pocket of his cape. He took his time. She was the one giving orders, but somehow he still had the upper hand, and it put her off balance.

His familiar features suddenly looked strange. Perhaps it was the costume, or the aftereffects of her kidnapping, but he seemed a different man—more willful and far less
predictable. He made a grand gesture toward the shade beneath an oak tree, the motion swirling the folds of his black cape. “Come my nymph, be seated and partake of refreshments.”

“Nymph?” she said dryly.

“Bear with me. I’m having a dashing episode.”

He pulled a device from his pocket, pointed it at a square box sitting in the patch of shade, and pushed a button. Imogen caught her breath in surprise as the lid of the box sprang open and arrays of food and drink lifted up on mechanical arms. There were platters of sun-plumped strawberries, dishes of thick clotted cream, trays of tiny sandwiches, and slices of three kinds of cake. The plates appeared in tiers, like the unfolding sections of a sewing box, fanning out from the spring-loaded picnic basket. Then, with a whirring of clockwork, two mechanical arms emerged from the device, one holding a pair of glasses, the other a bottle of champagne. A small auxiliary claw drew the cork with a pleasant pop, and the glasses were filled with the requisite cascade of bubbles and froth. Not a drop, not a crumb spilled during the entire procedure.

Imogen was impressed, but not surprised by the intricate mechanics. “Is that your own work?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I’ve been perfecting it for a while now, preparing for such a summer day as this.”

She turned and met his eyes. The strangeness of the moment was still there, but anger and fright were giving way now that she knew she was safe. A primal excitement was taking its place, along with the memory of his hands on her during their last dance together, of her body against his. She should have been anxious and afraid, but this was Bucky; for a brief moment of fantasy, he offered the thrill of a highwayman, but none of the danger.

The curve of his lips said he’d noticed her interest. She turned away, cursing the color that rose to her face. She should have remembered the enterprising—and devilish—mind he hid behind that pleasant smile. And then all of the bother at Lady Porter’s came tumbling back into her thoughts.

She heard him shift, and the scrape of his boots in the grass sounded just a little irritated. “You’re still upset with me,” he said quietly, making it a statement rather than a question.

“I have no right to be. I thought we had an understanding, but you never promised me anything.”

“I do give away a lot of my mechanical inventions as gifts. I like making my friends happy, and I won’t apologize for that.”

She turned, opening her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stem her words.

Bucky’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it that spoke of banked emotion, like embers shimmering beneath ash. “I am, however, sorry that I left even a sliver of doubt that you are the only woman who moves my heart. I am not guilty of courting a half dozen women, or even two. But I am at fault for biding my time and hoping your family would come around. Perhaps I should have scaled your wall with a dagger in my teeth and carried you off into the night. That would have made my point.”

Imogen’s breath caught, her whole body tingling. Her senses sharpened, as if she were trying to imprint the moment in her memory. She was acutely aware of the cool grass under her feet and the jingling of the horse’s bridle as it cropped the grass. The breeze tickled the hairs at the nape of her neck and smelled of summer lushness. Most of all, she was aware of Bucky standing just a few feet away. Even though they weren’t touching, she knew how warm his skin was.

That was the problem. She’d thought she’d known him, but this man making declarations of love was unexpected. The tingling that raised the hair along her arms was making her light-headed, making her heart beat a little too fast. Like a sorcerer, he had her under some kind of spell—and it thrilled her.

Wordlessly, Imogen let herself approach the portable feast, a flutter of pleasure at the idea he’d done this all for her. He’d obviously planned the entire moment, selecting the picnic spot, preparing the basket, watching her so that he knew precisely when and where she’d gone walking. It was an amazing piece of theater, planned down to the pink rosebuds nestled among the strawberries.

“Try the champagne,” he said softly. “It would be a crime to let it go to waste.”

“Champagne.” As she spoke the word, she seemed to notice its luxurious syllables for the first time. It sounded like it tasted, bright on the tongue. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Do you wish me to?”

“Would that be wrong of me?”

“I would never say so.”

He undid the tie of his cloak and spread the garment on the grass like a blanket. Beneath it, his black clothes were simple and serviceable as a groom’s—and that was far more powerful than any uniform. It gave away nothing, gave her no cues or protocols to follow, which was oddly disconcerting. It was easier to keep her mask of gentility in place while others were wearing theirs.

She cleared her throat. “Come, you know very well a young lady’s reputation is a delicate thing. My good name would be in tatters if we were found here alone.” Some social mores had relaxed since her grandmother’s day, but that was not one of them.

He spread his hands reasonably. “Say the word, and I will have you back home in minutes.”

Imogen struggled a moment, realizing that was not what she had wanted to hear—though she wasn’t absolutely certain what that was. She tried again. “What would Society say if I were caught drinking champagne with my favored suitor?”