Page 2 of A Highwayman's Kiss

The lantern light shone on the barrel of a pistol. A pistol held in a black-gloved hand, the man in possession of both leaning into the barouche window as Abigail’s mother screamed.

‘Stand and deliver.’ A crisp, confident voice; one that was used to being obeyed. ‘And madam, there’s no need to scream—I am interested in nothing but the contents of your reticule. Sir, before reaching for a weapon, consider how quickly I subdued your coachman. I would waste no time subduing you.’

Don’t panic. Abigail was frozen, gripping her seat, but her mind soared. This… this is an opportunity.

What opportunity, she couldn’t exactly say. But a highwayman holding up their modest coach—and really, he was likely to be very disappointed given her family’s relative lack of wealth—was a jarring but powerful reminder of how surprising life could be.

Perhaps her future wasn’t set in stone. Perhaps, if she managed to move of her own accord as her mother sobbed and her father spluttered in impotent rage, her future could be thrown into the air like a tossed coin and left to fall where it may.

‘Come now.’ The man’s voice had lost a little of its crispness. Still, his hand on the pistol didn’t tremble in the slightest. ‘Tonight doesn’t hold other engagements, but I--’

He stopped in the middle of his sentence. More specifically, he stopped because Abigail, seizing the moment with a desperate rush of energy, leaned out of the carriage window and stared directly into his masked face.

‘I have wealthy friends.’ Not precisely true, but Mary’s family was certainly wealthier than her own. Abigail continued whispering, noting with an inward sigh of relief that the highwayman’s dark eyes seemed kind. ‘If you take me instead of their jewels, you can name your price as a ransom.’

The man blinked. Abigail leaned closer, whispering furiously as panic began to take hold of her again.

‘My name is Abigail Weeks. I’m no-one in particular, but you’ll be rewarded if you hide me. If you could see your way to kidnapping me, sir, I’d be very grateful indeed.’

Another blink. The highwayman evidently hadn’t been expecting the request. But just as Abigail’s heart sank, her extremities tingling with fear and disappointment, the man reached his other hand through the window and seized tight hold of Abigail’s wrist.

‘In lieu of jewels, sir, madam, I’ll take your daughter.’ The confidence in the man’s voice was back. Abigail bit her lip as her heart skipped a beat; was it fear, or excitement? ‘And as for when you’ll have her back—well, that depends on the depth of your coffers. Good night!’

Well. His Grace Marcus Brooks, Duke of Tinton by day and highwayman by night, tried to marshal his increasingly panicked thoughts as he rode across the moonlit fields. That... that didn't go according to plan.

It was meant to be the Moorford coach. He'd had it on good authority that Lord Moorford and his wife would be taking this exact road at midnight—why, Lord Moorford had told him about their planned route himself, not knowing that Marcus was the very criminal who had terrified the ton with his daring coach robberies. He'd also told Marcus, with a proud smile and a careless wave of his hand, that he'd recently purchased a glorious pair of pearl earrings and a matching necklace for the blushing Lady Moorford.

So Marcus had held up the coach—held it up with a considerable amount of style, even if he said so himself—but instead of finding Lord and Lady Moorford, he found an unknown and thoroughly frightened family. A family that included a lady who had not only introduced herself to him, for all the world as if they were making conversation at a ball rather than in the middle of a robbery, but had also... well...

She kidnapped herself. Marcus shook his head, trying to work out what the devil had just happened, as Blossom the mare whinnied and snorted beneath him. Or had me kidnap her, as if I'm some sort of butler. And I obeyed her—why on God’s green earth did I obey her?

Abigail Weeks. Abigail Weeks, who was now sitting on the back of his saddle and gripping the rough wool of Marcus' coat as if her very life depended on it. Perhaps it did—had he been involved in some sort of rescue? Had she been kidnapped by the gentlemen in the coach?

'Your horse is very nice!' Abigail's voice carried over the light breeze. She was shouting, but somehow politely; Marcus fought the urge to turn his head in sheer bewilderment. 'Is she from the Blackwell Stables? They often have good coursers!'

'I—I—'

'What's her name?'

He could hardly tell the woman that the horse was named Blossom. That wouldn't be frightening in the slightest—but then, Abigail hadn’t seemed frightened by him in the first place. Even if he had waved a pistol at her. 'Be quiet!'

'Why?'

Marcus blinked. Blossom, as if sensing his surprise, took the opportunity to whinny particularly loudly. 'Because... because I told you to!'

Doesn't talking during a journey make everything more pleasant?'

Abigail didn't sound cheerful. Thank goodness; a woman happy about being kidnapped was a little more insanity than Marcus could deal with. Still, she didn't sound aware of the gravity of the situation. 'No, it doesn't!'

'I've always been of the opinion that it does!'

'I am a very dangerous man, and you shouldn't talk to dangerous men!' Hardly a witty response, and definitely a lie, but it would have to do under the circumstances. 'And the horse is as dangerous as I am, so stop asking about it!'

Abigail was silent. Still, despite not being able to look at her, Marcus was oddly sure that his chilling warning hadn't been taken seriously in the slightest.

He dig his heels into Blossom's sides, spurring her onward. He never normally rode quite so quickly away from the scene of a robbery; if he took a fall, he would be caught no matter how long the police took to arrive. But with Abigail behind him, the shape of her hands a firm yet surprisingly graceful weight against his back as she gripped his cloak, Marcus wished to finish this journey as quickly as humanly possible.

Blossom, unfortunately, did not agree. She bucked—not enough to fling anyone off, but enough to make her displeasure known. Marcus restrained a curse; Abigail cried out, the sound a world away from her determinedly normal tone mere moments before.