Page 10 of A Highwayman's Kiss

Present, and cooking. First there was coffee boiled over the fire, served with hard biscuits that came from a pack at the back of the cave and were more flavoursome than Abigail had expected. Then, after Marcus had spent the morning in the cave packing and unpacking things and Abigail had spent the morning trying not to ask what he was doing and why, came a serviceable luncheon: potatoes cooked in the ashes of the fire, served with hot butter from a niche in the cave wall and wild herbs which Abigail couldn’t identify, but could certainly eat.

Marcus didn’t want her to cook anything, despite Abigail insisting that she could at least try. He also didn’t want her to tidy the cave, sweep, or clean—despite there being cobwebs in the corners that Abigail could certainly reach—and even though Abigail put up a spirited resistance, pointing out all the flaws in Marcus’ current living situation and how she could easily improve it, Marcus eventually gave her such a withering look that she stopped.

Instead she was confined to the cave itself with a book. The book itself was very good—and would have to have cost a considerable amount, leading Abigail to believe that Marcus had stolen it during one of his daring robberies—but it was hardly the sort of day she had expected to live alongside a criminal. A criminal who brought her a cup of tea mid-afternoon, a brew of wild chamomile, and turned his back on Abigail before she could thank him for it.

He didn’t wake this morning when I… forgot myself. Abigail found herself returning to the morning with increasing frequency as afternoon slowly became evening. Worries about her parents summoning searchers, worries about being discovered; no anxiety felt quite as vivid as worrying about the state of things between her and her kidnapper.

It had felt… right. Right to be in his arms, to touch him as she had, even if she had technically done nothing salacious when it came to exact details. But the details didn’t matter, not really; it was more the feeling of being with him. Talking to him.

Touching him.

But whatever this sentiment was that was building inside her, she appeared to be the only one feeling it. The more Abigail felt as the hours passed, the more she stole glances at Marcus as he went about his mysterious business, the more remote the man seemed to become. The talk between them became shorter, more awkward, then stopped altogether; now night was on the point of falling, the horizon an inky blue, the air full of the scents of the day that had just passed.

It should have been a peaceful day, away from the clutches of her parents. Or a thrilling day at the mercy of Marcus. Not this day, a strange mixture of dull and frustrating, trapped with a man who became more and more maddening the more he ignored her.

The tension in her body was astonishing. It was as if a storm was about to break inside of her, thunder clouds gathering, lightning waiting to strike. And as foolish as Abigail knew it to be, as utterly illogical, touching Marcus felt like the only way to clear her internal skies.

But Marcus wouldn’t get close enough for even the briefest, most mechanical of touches. He had kept a careful, polite distance of roughly six feet from her for the majority of the day. Normal, for a gentleman… but dash it, he wasn’t meant to be a gentleman.

And she didn’t feel like a lady any more. Not in the slightest. Ever since she had woken up in Marcus’ arms and decided to stay there, decided to explore exactly what being in the embrace of a handsome man felt like, Abigail knew that some invisible but clearly defined line had been crossed. Worse still, she didn’t want to go back.

Had she thrown away her former life, her former future, with too much haste? Very probably. Did she regret it? Absolutely not. If anything, it felt as if a previously neglected part of her had flowered into life—and Marcus, a previously unplanned feature of her new life, had become an integral part of that flowering.

Oh, if only he would sit a little nearer to her. Treat her less like a lady. Abigail shifted uncomfortably by the fire, drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as Marcus brushed the mane of his horse a little way away.

He treated the animal with such gentleness, moving the brush with a sinuous grace. Abigail swallowed; she should stop looking at his hands, imagining them on her body.

She cleared her throat. ’You still haven’t told me the name of your horse.’

‘She has a ferocious name, suited to her ferocious character and dangerous life.’ Marcus didn’t look at her, but his voice carried the same tension as Abigail’s had. ‘And that’s all you need to know.’

‘I thought highwaymen were meant to take delight in frightening their victims.’

‘You’re hardly a victim, since you procured my services. And why would the name of my horse frighten you so?’

‘It might be named something like Bone-Crusher, or Nightmare. That would frighten me.’

‘And why on earth do you need to be frightened?’ Marcus’ hand stilled, the brush halfway through the horse’s mane. ‘Why does fear have to be a feature of this particular arrangement?’

Arrangement. That was what this was; a transaction, nothing more, nothing less. She was being successfully hidden, while Marcus would receive more than adequate recompense from Mary once this was over. Because this would be over soon, this cave-dwelling existence in the heart of the soft green hills, and there was nothing Abigail could do about it.

She didn’t answer Marcus’ question. Instead she looked away, staring at the fire, until the gentle rustle of the brush through the horse’s hair began again.

Talking to him should have eased the tension, but it hadn’t. Instead it was worse, almost painful in its intensity. Abigail clenched her fists, staring hard at the flickering orange flames, trying to think about literally anything else but the man standing a little way away from her.

I shouldn’t have touched him this morning. She silently upbraided herself as she glanced back at Marcus, who had turned his back to her. I shouldn’t have discovered just how good it felt.

‘Why do you have such a need to be frightened?’

Oh, Lord, he’d spoken. He wanted to continue speaking to her. ‘Beg pardon?’

‘You want to be frightened, Miss Weeks. Why?’ Marcus set the brush down on the bare earth, giving his horse a pat on the nose before turning to Abigail. ‘If you’ll forgive the impertinence, your life before our meeting seemed frightening enough. Why on earth would you wish to continue feeling such a devastating sentiment?’

‘Well, it’s—it’s different.’ The question was indeed impertinent, but it forced Abigail to examine herself in a way she hadn’t been expecting. Still, it was hard to interrogate her emotions when she was feeling so many of them at once. ‘Very different.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’