Oh, admit it." He gave the dowager a subversive little smile. "You are an expert rider, a crack shot, and you can recite the complete works of Shakespeare backwards."
If anything, the dowager grew even more pale at his words.
"Ah, to be twenty years older," he said with a sigh. "I should not have let you slip away."
"Please," the dowager begged. "There is something I must give to you."
"Now that's a welcome change of pace," he remarked. "People so seldom wish to hand things over. It does make one feel unloved."
Grace reached for the dowager. "Please let me help you," she insisted. The dowager was not well. She could not be well. She was never humble, and did not beg, and -
"Take her!" the dowager suddenly cried out, grabbing Grace's arm and thrusting her at the highwayman.
"You may hold her hostage, with a gun to the head if you desire. I promise you, I shall return, and I shall do it unarmed."
Grace swayed and stumbled, the shock of the moment rendering her almost insensible. She fell against the highwayman, and one of his arms came instantly around her. The embrace was strange, almost protective, and she knew that he was as stunned as she.
They both watched as the dowager, without waiting for his acquiescence, climbed quickly into the carriage.
Grace fought to breathe. Her back was pressed up against him, and his large hand rested against her abdomen, the tips of his fingers curling gently around her right hip. He was warm, and she felt hot, and dear heaven above, she had never - never - stood so close to a man.
She could smell him, feel his breath, warm and soft against her neck. And then he did the most amazing thing. His lips came to her ear, and he whispered, "She should not have done that."
He sounded... gentle. Almost sympathetic. And stern, as if he did not approve of the dowager's treatment of her.
"I am not used to holding a woman such," he murmured in her ear. "I generally prefer a different sort of intimacy, don't you?"
She said nothing, afraid to speak, afraid that she would try to speak and discover she had no voice.
"I won't harm you," he murmured, his lips touching her ear.
Her eyes fell on his gun, still in his right hand. It looked angry and dangerous, and it was resting against her thigh.
"We all have our armor," he whispered, and he moved, shifted, really, and suddenly his free hand was at her chin. One finger lightly traced her lips, and then he leaned down and kissed her.
Grace stared in shock as he pulled back, smiling gently down at her.
"That was far too short," he said. "Pity." He stepped back, took her hand, and brushed another kiss on her knuckles. "Another time, perhaps," he murmured.
But he did not let go of her hand. Even as the dowager emerged from the carriage, he kept her fingers in his, his thumb rubbing lightly across her skin.
She was being seduced. She could barely think - she could barely breathe - but this, she knew. In a few minutes they would part ways, and he would have done nothing more than kiss her, and she would be forever changed.
The dowager stepped in front of them, and if she cared that the highwayman was caressing her companion, she did not speak of it. Instead, she held forth a small object. "Please," she implored him.
"Take this."
He released Grace's hand, his fingers trailing reluctantly across her skin. As he reached out, Grace realized that the dowager was holding a miniature painting. It was of her long-dead second son.
Grace knew that miniature. The dowager carried it with her everywhere.
"Do you know this man?" the dowager whispered.
The highwayman looked at the tiny painting and shook his head.
"Look closer."
But he just shook his head again, trying to return it to the dowager.
"Might be worth something," one of his companions said.
He shook his head and gazed intently at the dowager's face. "It will never be as valuable to me as it is to you."
"No!" the dowager cried out, and she shoved the miniature toward him. "Look! I beg of you, look! His eyes. His chin. His mouth. They are yours."
Grace sucked in her breath.
"I am sorry," the highwayman said gently. "You are mistaken."
But she would not be dissuaded. "His voice is your voice," she insisted. "Your tone, your humor. I know it. I know it as I know how to breathe. He was my son. My son."
"Ma'am,"