“I said leave it to me,” Fred snapped. He reached for the carriage door. His hand had no sooner touched the handle than the door was wrenched from his grasp.
It flew open, revealing a sinister figure enveloped in a heavy black cloak. His face was covered by a mask, his eyes shadowed by a tricorne hat pulled low over his brow. In his hand he held a horse pistol of truly startling proportions. He leveled it straight at Fred.
“Evening, guv,” he said. “Mind stepping out of the carriage?”
“We don’t want any trouble,” Fred said. “We’ll do whatever you ask of us.”
“Then do it.” The highwayman gestured with his pistol. “Out you come.”
“Ooh,” Aunt Harriet moaned.
The highwayman glanced at her. “Madam.” He touched his hat in a mock salute. And then he looked at Maggie. His large frame seemed to still for an instant.
And no wonder.
She knew how she must appear. Without her wrap, there was no hiding her disheveled state. The torn sleeve of her ball gown was plainly visible in the light from the carriage lamp, as was her loosened coiffure.
“It seems I’ve interrupted something.” Turning his attention back to Fred, the highwayman very deliberately cocked his pistol. “Step out, guv, before I haul you out myself.”
Fred hastily exited the carriage. “Have a care how you point that thing,” he said as the door slammed shut behind him. His voice was muffled. “If it’s money you want, I can give you—”
There was a heavy thud. It was followed by a grunt and the sound of a large person hitting the ground.
Maggie clasped Aunt Harriet’s hand. Her pulse was racing so she could hardly catch her breath.
“Do you suppose he’s killed him?” Aunt Harriet asked.
“I don’t think so. We’d have heard the pistol discharge.”
The carriage door opened again, framing the highwayman’s cloaked figure in the darkness.
“You can’t take my diamonds, sir,” Aunt Harriet said with a surprising degree of composure. “They’re a family heirloom.”
“Never fear, madam, I don’t steal from aged ladies. Nor from young ones.” His gaze caught Maggie’s. “But I’ve been known to take payment by other means.” He extended his hand to her. “Step out, love. Let me have a look at you.”
She stared at his gloved hand, and then back at his face—at his eyes. Some of the tightness in her chest eased. Slowly, she slipped her hand into his.
“Miss Honeywell!” Aunt Harriet objected.
“I’ll be fine,” Maggie said as the highwayman assisted her out. “He won’t hurt me.”
“So long as you stay where you are,” the highwayman warned Aunt Harriet. He shut the door of the carriage, leaving her alone inside.
Maggie blinked, trying to acclimate herself to the darkness. In the light of the lantern that swung from the coachman’s box, she could just make out Fred on the ground, his slumped figure half-propped against the carriage wheel. He didn’t appear to be dead. He wasn’t even unconscious.
The coachman himself remained on the box, the liveried footman immobile at his side. Maggie didn’t understand why they hadn’t put up a fight. Not until she saw that there was another masked man standing in the shadows pointing a pistol at them. He was a great deal smaller than the first highwayman, but no less effective.
“What do you want from her?” Fred demanded. “Margaret—”
“What I want’s a bit of privacy to claim my prize.” The highwayman ushered Maggie behind the carriage. “This way, my beauty.”
As soon as they were alone, Maggie reached to tug down the highwayman’s cloth mask. He permitted her to do it, putting up no fight at all. St. Clare’s handsome face was revealed by inches.
As if she’d had any doubt.
From the moment he’d reached for her, extending his hand in that age-old way, she’d known exactly who he was.
“Have you gone utterly mad?” she asked under her breath.
“Have you?” he replied in a sharp whisper. “Why did you leave the ball with him?”
“Because he was making a scene. It was easier to do as he asked than risk a scandal.” She paused, admitting, “I thought I could manage him.” Self-disgust coursed through her at her own naiveté. Fred wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, and one she could obviously no longer control. “Is that why you came after me? Dressed like this?”
“There was little I could accomplish dressed as myself. I have no claim on you.” St. Clare’s fingers brushed over her torn sleeve. “Did he do this?”
“Yes. He was trying to kiss me, and when I fought with him—” She