“Stand and deliver!”

The highwayman’s call made Lady Anabel Mayward’s pulse race…but not from fear. Tales of the “knights of the road” had always piqued her curiosity, but Sullivan aroused something new: desire. With an arranged marriage looming, Anabel never expected to have control over who would be the first to bed her…until Sullivan took her to his forest hideaway where they could give free rein to their wild passion…

As soon as I saw Mills & Boon Historical’s “Undone” line announced, I knew that we would have a passionate relationship. Since I was a little girl I’ve loved to think about past times and far-off places, and my favorite books helped to provide visuals and memorable characters for my daydreams: brave, beautiful women and handsomely heroic men courted in castles and on battlements and by moonlight. What could be better than Mills & Boon’s “Undone,” set up to transport grown-up girls to distant lands on a sensual adventure?

I have studied English and history for many years, and my shelves are packed full of well-loved novels and esoteric reference tomes. Yet the first spark for Taken by the Highwayman came from art instead of literature. The lovely painting by Victorian artist William Powell Frith, “Claude Duval,” depicts a scene out of old British folklore—infamous highwayman Duval poised to ask a lady to dance after holding up her carriage, so struck was he by her beauty.

I have long been drawn to folklore, mythology and tales with an eclectic bent, favoring ghosts, pirates, fairies, and of course rogues, knaves, and desperately attractive villains. Outlaws allow us to go places we cannot go otherwise. Taken by the Highwayman is the story of what happens after dancing with a dangerous thief at night.

I was excited to write about a sexy highwayman, a legend that appeals to the Robin Hood in us all. My heroine, trapped in a loveless engagement, longs to declare her independence in a strict Victorian era where she is valued only for her marriageability and seeming innocence. Her meeting with a figure out of legend—a masked, accented, and mysterious robber—will lead her down a very different path.

I am thrilled to be joining the “Undone” community and hope that readers will enjoy their encounter with a gallant highwayman on the dark, fog-bound roads outside of London…

Amelia Casey is the daughter of wandering parents who imparted a love of travel and foreign cultures early on. She remembers always wanting to read and later write. As a young girl she would compose stories set in her favorite authors’ worlds, happily oblivious of copyright law.

Amelia’s first love affair with history came through D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths, and the relationship was profound, the emotions heightened. Since then, she’s immersed herself in the study of classical worlds, American and British history, and revolutionary times in Europe.

She is also fascinated by folklore and mythology from the world over and has a weakness for ghost stories and sordid tales from the past. Amelia holds a degree in English literature and history, which gave her a chance to explore lifelong passions. Her bookshelf is crammed full of reference books, romantic and genre fiction, and dusty old volumes that prove so irresistible to collect.

After a youth spent sneaking her grandmother’s romance novels and hanging around the bookstore to page to the “best parts” in those books, Amelia is thrilled to be writing for Mills & Boon Historical Undone. You can contact her at amelia.m.casey@gmail.com.

Enjoy more passion through the ages with the sensual Harlequin Historical UNDONE titles on sale now:

TO BED A LIBERTINE by Amanda McCabe

WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW by Bronwyn Scott

WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER by Lauri Robinson

AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION by Michelle Willingham

NOTORIOUS ELIZA by Barbara Monajem

THE MAID’S LOVER by Amanda McCabe

AWAKENING HIS LADY by Kathrynn Dennis

SEDUCING A STRANGER by Christine Merrill

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER by Marguerite Kaye

THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS by Margaret Moore

THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN by Michelle Willingham

AT THE DUKE’S SERVICE by Carole Mortimer

HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION by Joanna Maitland

A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE by Terri Brisbin

DISROBED AND DISHONORED by Louise Allen

THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH by Diane Gaston

Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Mills & Boon Historical at www.millsandboon.co.uk or your local bookstore.

Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to undone@harlequin.ca.

Taken by the Highwayman

Amelia Casey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Rose

The carriage rattled and rolled past Highgate. The night had been prematurely dark and full of fog, and there wasn’t much to glimpse past the thick glass windows. Instead Anabel was forced to turn a blank smile on Lord Houghton, who sat across from her in an imperious sprawl. On the jolting seat beside Anabel her father hummed and sorted through his receipts, cheerfully oblivious.

Lord Houghton was talking, as he had been for most of the journey, of his investments in India, relishing the topic of his own fat purse and connections while Anabel nodded vacant agreement and asked the vague, well-timed questions required of her. Lord Houghton liked it best when she appeared attentive yet displayed no real intellectual curiosity. He’d long made it clear that his ideal woman served as an adornment on his arm and to his ego, and Anabel had long considered it her own peculiar bad luck for having caught his eye.

Lord Houghton had many friends with egos and investments bigger than his own, and he had money. A lot of it. Holding the title of first gentleman across a considerable stretch of English countryside, he also had the right to expect that his offer of marriage would be met with no less than delight on Anabel’s part.

Anabel, who had known Edwin Houghton in acquaintance for years, had to be forgiven for her horror when his suit was announced. Lord Houghton used to stare at her at dances, at dinners, even when she was younger—and she’d never liked his eyes on her. She had, in fact, long since made it her policy to avoid him socially.

And now he had her hand. It was almost official: contracts and paperwork were needed, and the ceremony would have to occur. Houghton looked at her with eyes full of triumphant self-satisfaction, his possessiveness evident as always. It was no different tonight in the carriage. Approving of her absent smile, he stopped speaking about the shipping of cargo and instead eyed her brazenly, as though the small space of the carriage gave him leave to be more forward than in a larger room.

“You have truly outdone yourself tonight, Lady Mayward,” he said approvingly, while her father hummed more and counted higher figures. Anabel’s spine straightened under his scrutiny, but she again showed him what might have passed for a modest smile. “How well we will look,” Lord Houghton added pointedly, “when we are presented together for the first time before Queen Victoria herself.”

“You must be right, my lord,” Anabel demurred, for her history with Houghton had taught her that he hated nothing so much as being disagreed with or crossed in the slightest. And at least part of it was true: she had outdone herself—but she did not think they would look particularly well being introduced together at the grand party. Not with the look that was bound to show on her face. Anabel was a girl who knew and had nearly accepted her daughterly duties; in the Year of Our Lord 1848 there was little else she could do. She was her father’s property before she would become her husband’s,—bartered about like one of Houghton’s stocks. But in the run-up to being socially recognized as the future Lady Houghton, she did not have to pretend yet that she was really pleased.

Anabel’s dark blond hair was upswept with gold beads and pearls, a few loose curls framing green eyes, and she had a rope of pearls gleaming on her neck. At nineteen, her skin was clear and her features pleasingly fresh. Because she had been alerted to her looks by others from a young age, Anabel had learned a long time ago how to best maximize the effect.

Her slender figure, trim after a season filled with dancing, was elaborately laced into a new dress the color of corn silk and edged in gold, shot through with intricate embroidery. The dress was modeled on the latest cuts out of Paris, and Anabel’s final fitting had been today. Considering the clothier’s reaction, she knew she could anticipate Lord Houghton’s, but she had not taken so much care to please him.

While her presumptive suitor saw this as the appearance that would make their new status official, Anabel had put all her energy into preparing for the last public night she would have to herself. After tonight there would be no excuse not to wear the heavy engagement ring that weighed and tugged on her small hand. After tonight Anabel would never be thought of as Lady Mayward again, so she dressed finely enough to give everyone something to think about and someone to remember.

Anabel tugged her golden shawl in close but could not deflect the man across from her.

Lord Mayward smiled up at the young people as the carriage lurched around a bend. “Quite a party it will be, eh? We’re like to see all the good crowd. This is the only event of any significance before court shuts up for winter.”

“We all deserve hibernation,” said Anabel tightly. “We have been positively beastly with the excesses lately.”

Edwin Houghton disagreed. “Life must be lived to the fullest, my dear,” he said with too-easy familiarity. “Why should we deny ourselves our provincial pleasures? The poor, the servants,—they all look to us to know how to feel and how to conduct themselves. If we are easy and free spending they celebrate with us. When we are shut up and stingy, they suffer.”

Lord Houghton gleamed with preparation for the party. His brown hair was set and plaited with ribbons, his gaudy suit tailored to the latest style within an inch of its life. His leather boots were tall and supple and shone. He wore several rings, a family crest around his neck and a round gold watch on his jacket. Anabel knew that the India sapphire-encrusted snuffbox in Houghton’s pocket was worth more than all the money his coachman had ever encountered.

She turned slightly away from the chiding economics lesson, but she was starting to feel uncomfortable about showing off with the gold silk and jeweled dancing shoes. She knew she looked beautiful, but she was afraid of seeming too well-matched with her intended.

Oh! The whole thing was insufferable, really. Anabel had begged and pleaded with her father when he first spoke of Houghton’s suit. For a while her father had been indulgent and had been persuaded and put him off. But Edwin Houghton had been unruffled. He was patient to a fault. He had a bottomless income at his disposal. And he was very persistent.

When his offers finally became too insistent and too generous to refuse, Lord Houghton had claimed the right to inform his future bride. They had met for a stiff-backed tea that ended with his declaration of love and intentions toward her.

Anabel, who had been dodging his proposal for months, was forced to sit with a pasted-on smile and let Edwin Houghton finally put that ghastly ring on her finger. Then he’d gotten up from kneeling, his eyes aflame, and tried to kiss her shocked mouth. He was suddenly very impertinent indeed, laying his hands on her, forcing the press of his lips and fingertips.

Anabel had still been dazed by the prospect of marriage. Her new fiancé’s rude familiarity had taken a moment to intrude. Then she tore from his embrace, turned her wrist and slapped him soundly. It had been the best part of the whole day, the slapping.

Lord Houghton had stepped back, his cheek reddening, but he’d grinned a sort of smug approval. “Good,” he said shortly. “I had always heard that you were that impossible thing, that unicorn, a virtuous noble girl. It is good to see that you are still that.”

Now he looked at her from across the carriage with eyes even hungrier than on that awful engagement day. Anabel didn’t understand how she was supposed to pass another five minutes in the man’s company, let alone a lifetime. She shivered and felt sick from her nerves and the motion of the carriage’s pitches and turns.

Breaking from their steady pace, they heard the horses rear up, and the carriage jostled and crashed with a monumental lurch. Anabel and her father were thrown forward, while Houghton clung to his seat and slid around in terror. For an awful moment Anabel thought the carriage was going to tip, her world upended entirely, but in a moment they had stopped rocking and stood still.

Shaking, she picked herself up, then helped her father reclaim his seat. The older man was a little shocked but otherwise unhurt, and began to occupy himself in brushing dust from the sleeves of his velvet jacket.

“Sam,” Lord Houghton barked at his coachman. “What is the meaning of this? That jolt was unacceptable.”

There was only silence from the front of the carriage, silence from the woods beyond, and Anabel’s heart was in her throat. What if something had happened to Houghton’s normally steady servant? They should help the man—

Then, out of the fog that enveloped the carriage, a distinctive voice came steadily: “Stand and deliver!”

Anabel gasped by the window; she couldn’t help herself. She hadn’t imagined it—all the color was draining from Lord Houghton’s face, too. Her father stopped dusting his sleeves.

A mounted figure rode free of the fog on a dark brown horse. His clothes and mask were black, and sandy hair glimmered from under his hood. The figure moved closer as the carriage’s occupants stared, paralyzed and transfixed.

“Sam could not come,” explained the man. “He’s tied up at the moment. My dear wealthy people! Kindly stand and deliver. Your money or your lives.”

He had a heavy French accent, as though all of his vowels had been dipped in cream. She was reminded irresistibly of the notorious highwayman of old, Claude Duval, who had stolen as many longing looks from ladies as he had purses. Anabel’s heart, already put-upon, beat faster. Her pulse raced in her ears.

A highwayman! All her life she’d heard tales of “the gentlemen of the road,” who made their fortunes plundering plum stagecoaches. The aristocrats hated them on principle, hated them for being their targets, and would hang the “gentlemen” to widespread display whenever one was caught.

But Anabel’s housekeeper had also told her other stories about highwaymen when she was a girl, about men that she’d called “knights of the road,” men who defied authority and stole flagrantly from those who could handle having their purses lightened. Anabel had been whispered stories of famously chivalrous highwaymen from the century before, those who had gone about the business of robbing like true gentlemen.

She could only hope that the stories had some kernel of truth to them, for the man approaching had a pistol so polished that it gleamed even in the faint moonlight. But he was smiling a little below the mask. Anabel’s heart beat with hope and fear all at once.

He steered the horse closer, coming up flush with the carriage. Then he dismounted in a smooth flourish and opened the carriage’s door with an even smoother one.

“Sir,” he said to Anabel’s father, “the contents of your purse and pockets.” His eyes had keenly and coolly appraised their situation at first glance. “Mademoiselle, your lovely jewels. Sir—” and he cast a look of disdain along with the word, when his eyes fixed on Lord Houghton “—normally I would not know how to address a man wearing so many illustrious insignias of his worth. But since they will do me credit, I must thank you.”

Lord Houghton was sputtering pure outrage coupled with fright at the introduction of the pistol. Now he—perhaps wisely—said nothing, but he did not reach to remove his adornments either. Both actions cost him much by way of dignity.

Anabel’s fingers hesitated only a little on her pretty gold rings. The brooch was overdone and she would not miss it. She would be brave before the highwayman. But when she put her hands up to feel her throat she remembered which necklace she had on. The warm fine strings of pearls, her mother’s favorite, her favorite, her mother’s last gift to her. If only she hadn’t worn the pearls on this fated night—but she’d thought the necklace would bring the good luck and comfort that she had long associated with it. And she thought that she’d need them.

She tried not to let any tears show, tried to keep her shoulders straight and proud, while her father forked over thick billfolds and coins. Anabel’s fingers tripped on the workings of the clasp.

The robber’s eyes were abruptly on her, caught by movement. He looked at her for what seemed like, but could not have been, a long time. Then he said, “Mademoiselle, you must forgive me. I was overgreedy in my haste. Pray keep your effects about you.” His eyes were still on Anabel’s bright figure. “I will ask for nothing more from you than a dance, since you have your dancing shoes on already.”

Lord Houghton started up at this, practically spitting at the affront. “Anabel, keep your seat. You will do no such thing.” He pointed at the thief, who waited patiently, the part of his face that they could see turned in alert amusement. “Give the rogue your bauble and let’s be gone,” he ordered. “The hanging authorities must be alerted.”

The highwayman swept him a mocking bow. “They are alert, sir, but overall inept. However, I do believe the question was put to the lady. I did not ask you. Dancing is a subtle art, my lord, and you and subtlety have never been introduced.”

Houghton flushed, openmouthed. Still astonished, Anabel only just hid her smile. She felt dizzy with the mask-framed eyes on her: he seemed to have ridden straight out of her favorite legend of Duval, who was said to have once stolen very little from a passing carriage in exchange for a dance with the lady inside. But Duval was long gone—dead for nearly two hundred years; they’d strung him up at the gallows at Tyburn, where crowds had amassed to see him hang.

“One dance, mademoiselle,” said the highwayman again in his thick French accent, “and then you may proceed on with your gentlemen.”

Her gentlemen! Anabel looked at her father, surrendering a bulging purse without protest, at Lord Houghton glaring in his far seat. Her father did not seem overly worried about their predicament; there was always more money, and he was no doubt thinking of the mulled wine to be had when they finally reached the party, and the fine story they would have to share about rascally highwaymen. Since the engagement, he had appeared content to cede all responsibility for Anabel to her would-be bridegroom.

She found to her surprise that she was nodding. She put her rings back on and said to the highwayman, “One dance.”

Their robber smiled then, a real smile, and said, “I am honored. Pray collect your friends’ toll on your way.”

Anabel had to pretend that she did not partially enjoy turning to Edwin Houghton now, waiting for him to strip off his considerable jewelry. They were all waiting, and the highwayman most patiently, with his gun cocked.

Lord Houghton glowered at their watching eyes, but finally began to remove the pieces, each with increasing fury. By the time he had added his family crest to the pile under the highwayman’s waiting smile, he was apoplectic with rage. “You have no idea of the enormity of your mistake,” he spat. “You do not know who you have dared.”

“I am a keen observer,” the man returned. “I imagine I have dared a petty wee lordling who dresses like a peacock and has friends bigger than him who will help.” Then his eyes were back on Anabel. His eyes were blue, made darker in the relative gloom. He held a hand out to her. “Mademoiselle?”

Anabel bent and scooped up the treasure trove of Houghton’s jewelry. As she moved toward the open door, Houghton said over her shoulder to the man, “You will be hanged before the night is through,” but the highwayman was too busy lifting Anabel free.

Two gloved hands settled on her hips, and he swung her out and down, then released her. They stared at each other for a breath once he had placed her on the ground, for both had felt the shock of that sudden contact.

At least Anabel knew she had felt it—a sudden thrill, a quickening of the body, in the moment when she stepped down into nothing but the stranger’s hands. He had to have felt it, too, because they’d lingered together longer than propriety allowed. If propriety was allowed to highwaymen and their dance partners on foggy roads at night.

He looked back once at the men in the carriage, at their flummoxed faces. “My good gentlemen,” he said, in a tone quite cool and determined, not without certain cool menace. “I am sure that you value your lives, poor as they might seem at the moment. Know that yours would not be the first blood I have spilled on this road, nor would it be the last. Kindly keep to your seats, for the sake of the lady. I do not think that she will like to see your blood, but if you move from here I shall have to show it to her nonetheless. Red is my favorite color.”

Then his attention tipped back to her. His eyes were very bright against the dark mask. “What sort of dance shall we have, my lady? A waltz? A quadrille? Do you reel?”

Anabel leaned into a curtsy, trying to keep her hands from trembling. “I believe that choice is yours, sir.” But she added, spirited, “I think that I can keep up with most steps.”

He laughed, showing even teeth. “A challenge! The night grows more promising.” Into his saddlebags he deposited the small fortune he’d taken from the carriage. The horse, an imposing chestnut mount, had been groomed to glossy brilliance.

Then the thief stepped back around to her, and dropped into a low, proper bow. Wordlessly he seized Anabel’s waist with one hand while the other entwined her fingers. Though he wore thin gloves, she still startled at the warmth and assured pressure of his grip.

The highwayman was tall, with broad shoulders showing under the hooded cape he wore. His motions conveyed a certain sneaking grace. Though the silken black mask obscured half his features, she could still see his eyes, which were on her and very close. He guided them out onto the open road and began to move them together.

Never would Anabel have thought she’d be so happy for a lifetime spent dancing at lengthy balls. She did not know the steps of the dance he chose—a rousing, rushing turn that had them whirling. Her skirts belled out around her in the night air as they moved. She surrendered into his firm lead and learned the dance on instinct. Each time he spun her out, she found herself more closely tucked into his arms upon return. He had not learned to dance at any court, she could feel, but his step was confidently sound, and he swung them to a lively tune he seemed to hear.

By the end of the spinning set they were flush against each other, both panting, in the triumph of a perfectly executed maneuver. And she had not imagined it—where they touched her pulse flared. She felt exhilarated and dizzy from their turn. The highwayman was so full of life and considerate compared to the way Lord Houghton would clutch and paw at her at their presentation.

Suddenly feeling wild, infected with the dance and the open freedom of the road and the woods and the fog-filled night, Anabel found herself begging. “Please, sir,” she said to the thief, who still had hold of her waist. “Could you contrive to take me from this place? I would pay handsomely. I have some money of my own. Please.” She knew that her low voice sounded desperate then, and she didn’t care.

Anything, even gambling on the untested honor of a highwayman, would be better than being back shut up in the carriage. Out here she could breathe, and there was no grasping, grating fiancé to appease, no father who had forgotten her. Anything was better than hurrying on to the party where she would be marked as Lord Houghton’s and he would send the hounds after their gallant thief.

He considered her a long moment, generous lips pressed in a flat line. “Mademoiselle, while I am truly sorry for your circumstances…” He truly did look sorry. Anabel’s stomach dropped along with her faint hope. “My own circumstances make it so that I cannot be caught at current. It is a good night’s sport to play with the local sheriffs, but I do not think even my best stealth and your finest daring could outrun all the Queen’s men. That is who we would have out in the woods tonight if you were taken.”

Anabel turned away, not wanting him to see her face. She said, “I understand, of course. It was selfish of me not to consider your fate. If I were to be found, I would only be returned home, but you would get the gallows.”

He shook his head. He was highly uncomfortable. “I do you a great injustice. If my responsibilities were not what they are, I would not hesitate.” They were still standing in near-embrace; neither had sought to part. He hesitated.

“Thank you for the dance,” said Anabel sincerely, “And for your kindness with the necklace. And your handling of Edwin Houghton. I shall never forget it.”

He let go of her reluctantly. His eyes were full of conflict. Then his head turned, every muscle in his body tensed, and he threw himself against Anabel with considerable momentum, his body impacting hard as the world above them exploded with sound. Anabel hit the ground.

The shot soared over their heads, leaving only its echo behind. Even that was shockingly loud.

The highwayman looked down once to see that Anabel was breathing, her gasps those of surprise. Then, on adrenaline born of anger and action, he launched himself in a roaring charge at Lord Houghton, knocking free the gun he held.

“You bastard,” he snarled, as Houghton ducked from his hands and fists, “I could hear you from ten paces in, but I had not thought you so crass as to risk the lady for a clear shot at me.” He sounded fierce, and Anabel wished that she could see his face. He drew his own gun up from his belt then.

Houghton’s face held contempt and terror. “She should have long since stepped aside,” he snarled. “I shall deal with Anabel later. She will feel even sorrier than you, for you will be dead.”

“I should make you kneel at my feet,” said the highwayman, “but the road is dirty enough.” He leveled the gun. “Your boots, my lord.”

Houghton spluttered. “What?”

“I want them.” The pistol in the highwayman’s hand was unwavering. “Give them to me.”

Cursing, radiating loathing, Lord Houghton unsteadily took off the gleaming boots. He dropped them into the dust and spat after them.

The robber moved like a cat to collect them, and then he looked over his shoulder at her. “Miss Anabel, kindly relieve me of my new boots and see if you can find a place for them in the saddlebags.”

She struggled up from where she had lain since being knocked from the line of fire, and did as she was instructed. She did not mask the contempt in her eyes for Edwin Houghton as she gathered his shoes. He looked back at her in surprise but was now too warped with anger to pay any more attention to her.

But then the highwayman said calmly, his eyes on Houghton, “Mademoiselle, get on the horse, please.” His accented demand was equal parts polite request and threat, leaving no room for argument.

Anabel froze by the horse’s bridle. Had he really—?

Lord Houghton came alive then, sneering. “A full confession with torture, I think, and then we will bring back drawing and quartering, for the occasion and the presumption.”

Anabel got on the horse. She was not particularly graceful about it, encumbered by her lovely dress. Only the horse’s steadiness and practice got her into the saddle. She settled her skirts and looked down at the men: Houghton, shoeless on the road, in dress socks; the highwayman looking back at her with a smile that was decided.

He began to back up, toward her and the horse, the aim of the gun never wavering. Then he swung himself into the saddle in front of her with the ease of a born horseman.

By instinct she wrapped her arms around him and tried to prepare her body for what was about to happen. They would have to set the horse to a gallop.

“I hope you make use of the short hours you have left,” said Lord Houghton flatly.

“Sir,” returned the highwayman, “you have my word on that.” The reins were in his grip, powerful thighs flexing for the ride. Anabel was at his back. She cast one more glance on the stalled carriage, a silent goodbye to her father. He would worry, and he would miss her, but since her mother’s death he had been distant, estranged, a different person, more concerned with getting the best bargain out of Anabel’s marriageability than with her feelings on the subject. She would miss him, but if she was being honest with herself—and Anabel preferred honesty—she had lost him years ago; her mother’s deathbed might as well have served for two.

She looked for a last time at the man who stood without boots on the road, wrath making his unpleasant features yet uglier. Then the horse ran.

They crashed through the trees. Their mount seemed to find a path where there was none. Anabel clung to the solid body before her and hung on for her life, dodging low branches. The highwayman steered the horse as if he knew where he was going, but Anabel saw only forest.

They rode for what seemed like forever, until her thighs hurt and her hair was full of pine needles. She was whipped and gripped by foliage. She was not a poor rider, but childhood dressage lessons did not prepare one for racing in the forest.

Finally the highwayman was forced to let the horse rest. They halted by a rain puddle where the animal drank.

He slid down neatly and fetched a leather bottle from his bags, passing it up to Anabel. When their hands touched on the bottle, Anabel said, “May I see your face?”

He met her eyes steadily, and then he took his hand free and began to unknot the black silk mask around his eyes. He pushed back the hood that covered his hair.

He was strikingly attractive, ruggedly road-worn and young—younger than Anabel had thought, with only a handful of years on her. She knew then why the mask was requisite: he would not command as much fear during the robberies if his youth were revealed.

His hair showed itself to be more of a reddish auburn in the faint light, and his classically handsome features were offset only by a long-ago broken nose that helped to perfect the rakish smile. The nose worked with his expressive lips and very blue eyes. He did not look, Anabel thought then, particularly French.

She drank her fill of water, and he came over to help her from the horse. She slid down into his ready strength, and he held her there, a shield between Anabel and the woods.

“I will have to hide you,” said the highwayman, his voice low. “It is the only thing for it. Look at you. You are gleaming. A golden girl. You will give us away, mademoiselle.”

Anabel tightened her shawl around her bare shoulders. “Thank you for helping me,” she said seriously, in easy French. On a hunch.

His smile went wider, and his blue eyes were mischievous. “My dear lady, the pleasure was mine.” He did not return in French, but in heavily accented English words. He was smiling directly at her now, daring her.

She tipped her head back and laughed. “You aren’t any more French than I am, are you?”

The thief’s smile became a full-on grin. “Not even one little bit. But must admit having that frog in my throat makes the whole thieving process much more dramatic. Don’t you think, lady?” His true voice was lyrical, its vowels tumbling free and loose. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Why, do you favor Frenchmen?”

“For French lessons,” Anabel breathed, looking him over again in some surprise. “An Irishman?”

“Green as the rolling hills,” said the man, sweeping into a bow as though making introductions for his country. “Lovely place, Ireland. You ever study it, Lady…?”

“Mayward,” Anabel offered. It felt so strange, to be here with a man who barely knew her name, whose name she didn’t even know, whose touch made her body quiver. “I know a little of Ireland.” She paused, looking at him. “I am sorry for what has happened there.” For too long, his homeland had been plagued by poverty and dissent, but now it was haunted by an enemy even more dire. Famine stalked the countryside, with talk of untold numbers dying there while those who could leave did so. But his eyes did not judge her as she stood in her gold shoes and shawl.

He kept his gaze on her unwavering. “I told you I had responsibilities that meant I could not be caught. There are people who rely on me for aid.” His lips quirked, and this time the smile was warmer. “But you deserved my aid as well, and I could not leave you to that man. He is not fit company for your ladyship.”

Anabel was almost entirely in his arms, her back pressed up against the horse. “And you are, sir?”

“You will find me fit to the challenge,” he said. His body against her was solid strength and able muscle. Primed energy barely contained.

“And what am I to call you?” Anabel asked around a struggle to inhale. Her voice was catching with the heat of him.

He thought about it for a moment, both eyebrows arched. “The answer would be hard for you to say, but Sullivan is close.” He moved closer. He gave her an open look, considering. “I find I want to hear you say it.”

“Sullivan,” said Anabel. She tasted and tested his name on her tongue, and he leaned down and kissed her then, trapping the last sounds of it against their lips.

With the sudden jolt of their joined mouths, he’d acknowledged and kindled the heated energy between them—the tension, and the potential they could not ignore. Now he gathered her into his arms with intent, one hand on the small of her back, the other in her hair, as they leaned into each other hungrily.

Anabel had not been surprised: it felt like the most natural and the most wonderful thing in the world. The highwayman claimed her mouth in a gentle yet intimate kiss, full-bodied with her back to the horse. His lips were soft, his tongue clever, and his hands on her politely—and purposefully—appreciative.

She found that she had been longing for this, though she had not known it until they were wrapped up in each other. She kissed him back, and was surprised then at the surge of excitement she felt, the sudden passion that bloomed low in her belly. She was going weak-kneed when Sullivan broke away at last, slowly, hesitating again.

“We must go,” he said, though he tightened his grip around her waist. “We have stayed here too long already. But no man has been more sorry to move.”

“Where are we?” Anabel wanted to know, too afraid to ask where they were going.

He grinned again, and reached up to sweep free some of the pine needles caught in her hair. “Nearly back at where we started. We doubled back. I can only hope your gentlemen will not be expecting that. But I know this area better than they do. We will be closer than they ever imagine.”

Anabel reached up to touch the sides of his face, brushed her fingers over his kiss-stung lips. “Can you hide me?” she whispered. “For a little while?”

“The woods and I will try.” He turned his lips on her hand, the inside of her wrist, and his eyes were serious. “We will outsmart them, and move with greater stealth.”

The horse stood still as they remounted. Anabel slipped her arms more firmly around the highwayman this time. They picked their way through the trees quietly now, with fewer leaping jumps and dodges. The night air was thick with moisture, and low-lying clouds thankfully blocked most of the moon. Darkness hid them better as they rode through the tangle of branches and bushes.

At last they made it up a steep slope where the pines grew thick, and rocky outcrops obscured any sort of man-made path. The trees were so dense here that they formed a sort of ancient wall, protecting them from the wind and blocking them from sight.

It had taken a long time to reach this place. By now, surely, the plundered carriage had rolled into Hampstead with Lord Houghton’s rage and her father’s panicked confusion. Anabel imagined that she could hear the far-off sound of dogs baying. Were there men crashing and combing through the forest already, searching for her, looking to claim the highwayman with bloodthirsty hands?

Houghton’s wrath over the robbery alone would have been extensive; to have been gravely insulted in the process, to have his fiancée seeming complicit in being taken by a scoundrel…She shivered, and found that her hands were clutching at Sullivan. The width of his chest and the solid band of his stomach assured her. His shirt was of a soft cut, and his vest was supple black leather. She clung to him as the horse scrambled over rocks.

“Lady,” said Sullivan, his voice pitched deliciously low, his hands tight on the reins. “We are going somewhere that offers some safety and shelter. But I ask that you have a care for your fingers, if we are ever to reach that place.”

Anabel quietly laughed, and was a little less exploratory with her hands. The horse made it up the rocky hill. “Am I so distracting?”

“Like a carnival,” said the highwayman. He turned his head to show her his animated eyes. She knew then that he was in his element here, that the very real danger of the situation aroused his best instincts. If he said they would be safe, she trusted him. And if he said she was a distraction…

They were standing in a tall grove of trees. Sullivan guided the horse into the cover as far as it would go, then dismounted and began to set up a feed bag for the animal. Anabel looked around from her high perch: the forest here was old and dense and appeared to be untouched by mankind. The trees reached high with ancient, gnarled limbs, and it was difficult to see anything at a distance but more black trees.

Sullivan detached several of the saddlebags—and Lord Houghton’s boots—and slung them over his shoulder. He helped Anabel dismount once more, this time both unashamedly enjoying the press of their bodies. But he held one finger to his lips, indicating the need to be stealthy. The other hand caught Anabel’s, and she only just had time to gather up her skirts before they plunged together farther into the wood.

Sullivan knew where he was going; Anabel saw him looking for special markers as they went, twisting and turning, clambering over downed branches. Once, he had to lift her over a massive mud pit too wide for her already shredding dancing shoes. They almost did not make it across the muck, becoming consumed halfway through with kissing. Anabel wound her fingers into his hair, wound her arms around his neck, and when they had finally crossed he carried her for several more steps, until the trees blocked their joint passage. He set her down with a sigh.

“My lady,” he said, head bent and lips exploring the curve of Anabel’s neck. “You do well to remind a man with just a few hours left of all the things there are to live for.”

“Let Houghton have his chase,” Anabel managed to say around her desire to gasp with pleasure. She hoped that she sounded more confident than she felt. “If we can outlast him, we will become an embarrassment, something people whisper about. Edwin Houghton hates whispers. He will want it forgotten.” But she did not know if what she said was actually true, and rather thought it showed on her face.

Then Sullivan parted a heavy curtain of branches. He had to hold them aside for Anabel, and they snapped shut after he stepped through. She found herself in a small clearing between huge trees. A tarp had been strung up on one end, between more trees, with thatches of pine boughs arrayed above it to keep out the rain. Underneath the tarp the ground was piled high with grass and straw and blankets, and saddlebags in neat rows. There was a small cold fire pit, its edges blackened with recent burning.

“What is this place?”

The highwayman swept a little salute and let go her hand. “You are bid welcome to my home, Lady Mayward. One of them, in fact.” He slanted a sardonic grin. “You will find me quite the landed gentleman, forest-wise. But this is the best hiding spot I know. The sheriffs have not found me here yet.”

They stood side by side in the tiny clearing. Almost no moon was let in here; the boughs practically formed a ceiling above them. In the quiet Anabel could hear only the settling sounds of nature around her and the thrill of her pulse. “I think it’s wonderful,” she said.

He turned to her, and there was unrepentant hunger there. But the immediacy of the situation pressed on them. He headed for the shelter under the branches, the small camp set out there.

“I’ll make things ready for flight,” he said. “You…need to not be wearing that.” His eyes on Anabel in her dress glowed with appreciation. “Let me see if I can find you something more appropriate for fleeing.”

He had another black shirt in a trove of belongings hidden beneath the blankets, almost as soft to the touch as the one he wore. It would drape on Anabel like a tunic. A pair of worn riding breeches, with a big belt to keep the pants on her much smaller frame. She took up the highwayman’s clothes while he bent to packing. He worked to bundle items, slinging sacks together.

As he moved efficiently about the camp, Anabel stood frozen, searching for a place to change and also knowing she was practically helpless to escape her dress alone. A prisoner in cloth of gold! For the first time Anabel considered the two maids who had helped with her wardrobe since she was small, and she flushed with shame.

Here she was with a man who risked death daily, stealing to send money back to his desperate country—he was risking his very life and limb to help her escape an abhorrent marriage—and she, Lady Anabel Mayward, could not even undo her own dress! How could she reveal such a position to a highwayman? How could she make such a request?

But make it she did, after too long standing dumb with the clothes while he worked. He seemed to think her embarrassed, and pointedly turned around. Anabel flushed and said in a rush, “I—I find I need your aid, sir, in this as well.” She knew that she was red against the embroidered gold of the dress.

The highwayman stopped his activities and came across to Anabel. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I am ever at your service.” He surveyed her with quick blue eyes. “But in this you must instruct me. I have never served as lady’s maid.”

No, thought Anabel hotly, he’d probably only ever helped push skirts above knees, helped pull down blouses…

Those eyes were going to be the end of her. He circled behind her, leaning with superb pressure against her back. He bent and kissed a line along her shoulder that ended at her neck, just above where the first dress tie was. “Here, lady?” he murmured.

Anabel shivered, closed her eyes. “Yes…yes. You must undo the first knot, and pull free the laces. Be gentle with the hooks.”

His touch on the back of her neck sent shock waves through to her toes. He had removed his fine robber’s gloves, and his warm fingers lingered at her nape as he set to the task. Anabel, flushing, found that she needed the cool air that crept in as he loosed her dress.

It was arduous going, but he worked carefully at the complicated lacings. All too soon she would be able to step free of it; now she held the top to her upper body.

The feel of the heated skin of his hands on her was sending Anabel reeling. With an abrupt burst of confidence, she turned around to face Sullivan. His gaze was heavy and heady on her now.

Then she let the top of the dress slip down. Anabel stood straight, her shoulders back, the swell of her breasts round, shocked only at how fast her nipples hardened in the night air. She stood nervous yet decisive, knowing that she looked lovely, with her hair still bound up, and her skirts clinging just below her waist. She knew how she must appear from the way Sullivan looked at her then from the look in his eyes.

For a moment, one moment only, he put his hands on her, sliding them along her shoulders, lavishing her collarbone. He cupped one breast in a gentle, callused palm, which made Anabel gasp, but he was already smoothing fingers over the revealed skin of her belly. Then he took his hands away.

Anabel shook her head, but his expression was grave. “Anabel. You are an innocent?”

Less than half a question, since he clearly had guessed at the answer. She could see it in his face: lust tempered by caution. She had to explain; he couldn’t possibly understand. But she said, first, trying for a smile, “Am I so obvious, then?”

His attention was on her face, her breasts. His hands twitched with denied motion. He had no time to tease. “Before, you took my kiss like a girl who had not been properly kissed.”

“That is too many girls, regrettably,” Anabel said, feeling bold as her level gaze found his. “At least I no longer number among them.”

Sullivan shook his head. “I’ve tried to live according to certain codes, lady. But I’m no saint. I can’t…”

Anabel let go a deep breath. While he watched her, half-naked in the dark, she reached up and began to unplait her hair. This she could do on her own. Her fingers worked deftly amongst the pins and tie-ups. Beads of pearl and gold collected in her hands. She tucked them into the highwayman’s vest pockets while he stood quite still, watching her. She put her necklace in his pocket, too. After prolonged effort her hair began to unravel in a curtain of darker gold.

She brushed it back with her fingertips, away from her breasts. Then she said, “In my life I have seen nothing comparable to the hardship in yours, Sullivan. But never have I had control over my body and its fate. Can you imagine what that is like—not knowing what your own body can do?”

The finely muscled man, trained in risk and daring, could only shake his head.

“My virginity has always been a bargaining chip. Since I was not known to have taken any lovers, my worth was valued higher on a marriage market that thrives on perverse morality and the perverse people who care about it.”

He was laughing, gently, not at her. “Thought this through a time or two, have you, your ladyship?” He sounded very Irish now, his full mirth and accent up, and his eyes shone.

“If I could choose the first man to have me because of how he made me feel,” Anabel said, and tipped her chin back as if balancing an invisible weight, “how is that not more holy than lying down for some man who has bought and paid for me?”

“An impeccable logic,” he agreed, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He was trying to keep this light for her, trying still to deny the severity of their situation. Trying to keep his own needs in check on her account.

She had fought to keep her lip steady; it trembled only a little. “If we are found,” she went on, speaking her real fears for the first time, “they might send me back, but no one could take this decision from me again.”

His hands returned, gentle, on her breasts. As his thumb flicked around a nipple with exquisite care, Sullivan said, “And you, lady, would have given a man the finest last night ever passed on this earth.” Now he looked at her, every muscle taut.. “Do you want me, then, Anabel?”

No one ever asked her questions, asked for her opinion on anything. Every decision save the color of her ball gowns had always been out of Anabel’s hands. And this, she discovered, was the question she had most wanted asked of her since she’d reached marriageable age. The almost unattainable dream of wanting a man and the mutual consideration of him asking for her thoughts on the matter.

Anabel had only ever known that her destiny in love would be to lie still on her wedding night while some wealthy stranger climbed atop her. The best she’d had to hope for was an affair once her aristocratic husband tired of her and began his own.

The chance to be claimed first by a man who made her shiver, weak-kneed, who had shown himself chivalrous yet ruled by no one but himself, no codes but his own, with eyes that smoldered, and tricky hands on her nipples, and lust barely contained in the set of his jaw…

“Yes,” Anabel breathed then, breaking from the reverie of her body with the much-needed word. “Yes. It is all that I know I want.”

The highwayman’s handsome face showed pleasure matched only by desire, and, she thought, a growing admiration for her backbone. “My Lady Mayward, you would tempt a saint,” he said, amending his previous statement. “Thankfully the only vows I have sworn are to Ireland.”

“And does Ireland demand your chastity?” Anabel asked, somehow maintaining a teasing note over the slow urge building in her belly.

“Nay,” said the highwayman. “In fact, she demands the opposite. Have you not heard of our hot native blood?”

“Show me,” offered Anabel.

He seemed to decide then, gathering her swiftly against him, taking her to him, his hands on her bare skin, settling on her hips. He kissed her deeply, searchingly, taking the time to show her all the best ways there were to kiss, and the wonder of their tongues. His hands went roaming again, to her back, her breasts, her buttocks. He brought their bodies together, and she knew then that he wanted her. With ample evidence.

Then he was leading her, back stepping while he held both of her hands in his own. They reached the leveled ground of moss and straw and piled blankets.

He sat down first, then drew Anabel to him. He was sturdy and strong in the near-dark. “You never imagined such a humble first bed,” he said, sounding a bit uneasy.

Anabel shook her head. “You do not yet know my mind enough to know what I have imagined. Perhaps I used to dream of the likes of your kind.”

He looked delighted, and ran his hands up the outside of her thighs. “Partial to thieves as a girl, Anabel mine? Girls often choose highwaymen or pirates – or both.”

“I think I’ve chosen,” Anabel murmured. Adventurous now, she slid her fingers into the highwayman’s shirt, helping with the buttons. His stomach was warm to the touch, hard under heated skin. His chest was smooth. Well-honed muscles made his shoulders prominent and his arms strong.

He gamely shed the shirt so that they lay bared to the waist, exploring each other with eyes and lips and hands and tongues. With every passing heartbeat they grew bolder.

Sullivan’s eyes were keen but intent with care as he guided Anabel gently down; made sure that she was comfortable, then began to lavish the greatest pleasure she had ever known by lowering his mouth to her nipples.

Dear Lord, why had no one ever told her what it felt like to have the weight of the man you wanted on you, his head against your breasts? The highwayman’s quick clever tongue was licking circles around her nipples, hardening them under sultry strokes. Anabel found that she was moaning, whispering for him not to stop, her body aflame with longing.

He licked and sucked at her nipples, bringing them to points of exquisite arousal. Anabel writhed under wet heat and tried to keep her cries quiet. Surely in the forest by now there were men breaking through the underbrush in the search for them.

Sullivan ducked his copper head, busy lips moving from her breast to a line along her belly. He got to the jut of her hipbone and began to ease her skirts down, slowly, teasingly, as though they had all the time in the world. Anabel lifted her hips and hands, helping him. Soon all of the beautiful fabric pooled at her feet.

She turned naked in his arms, unashamed of her state but wanting more of the same from him. The touch of his bare chest against her own, the sweat-slick friction between them growing, was enough to make her gasp. She wanted more already, but the highwayman was biding his time, glimmering over her in the half-light. He was looking to her for permission, and his eyes never left hers. The intensity of their linked gaze was staggering.

Then he slipped lower, mouth never losing contact with Anabel’s skin. Her thighs parted at his touch, and she cradled him there. With a final flash of his blue eyes up at her, he turned his attention to the shadowed place between Anabel’s legs.

His smart, knowing tongue was suddenly everywhere at once, and though Anabel thought she had reached heights of arousal with his mouth on her breasts, no one had told her of this.

She lay loose and abruptly breathless under the ministrations of his mouth. The sight of his tousled head, the fiery curls, bent and lavishing worship on her—that was almost as good as the sensations he was making race through her womb, the way his tongue was setting her blood afire.

His head between her legs had not been something anticipated. Her education had been sparse in this: now, she gasped and pleaded, ablaze with desire and indignant that she had been kept so ignorant. She knew that people talked incessantly of the act of love: now she knew why. Sullivan’s tongue was darting and stroking her to the edge of a delicious precipice.

He was focused only on her, his face and body showing heightened need and lessening control. Sweat dampened his hair and desire shaped his features without restraint. Every time she writhed he rode the wave of her body, increased his licks and teases and kisses, working hard for her muffled cries. Anabel was in a near-sprawl on layered blankets, staring at the canopy of tree branches as the highwayman roused her to a fever pitch and past. She had thought by his actions that he would be a considerate lover; but she had never expected such tender and passionate attention.

She was trying for breath, her hands scrabbling. “Sullivan! Oh! I cannot take any more—”

He paused for only a moment, drawing back to lavish kisses on her inner thigh. “My dearest lady,” Sullivan’s voice said, and his head came up to give her that lusty rakish grin. “That is rather the point.”

Then his mouth was back against her, and with a slow, careful movement, one finger eased in between her legs. Anabel exclaimed at first at the intrusion, her head going back, her cheeks burning, but soon found that it only heightened her desire. The fire he’d been feeding low in her belly flared up to consume her entirely. Her hips bucked, and the skilled finger went deeper. She lost herself then, gasping, twisting, seeing only sparks. Why had no one ever told her it could be like this?

Sullivan watched her in the dark, bare chested and breathing hard, anticipating the ups and downs of her hips. He said, watching Anabel have her pleasure, “They can catch me now.”

“Oh, no,” Anabel murmured. She reached for him. “Oh, not yet.” The broad weight of him on her was intoxicating, and as he moved up to fit in her arms, she could feel the pressing length of him through the spare fabric separation.

“Anabel—” the highwayman started.

“I would like to try,” she said, shy at first. Then she became bolder. “I would like a chance, too. I want to taste you.”

His eyes were wide, but equally wanting. “Oh, lady—”

“It’s only fair,” Anabel told him. With the urging of her naked arms and bosom he got back up again. He stood in black leather breeches in their tiny clearing. He seemed to fill it. Anabel rose to slightly shaky knees and then she looked up at him.

The pants came off in a smooth motion, going past strong thighs and ankles, the legs of a rider and runner. Dusky hair marked the powerful flanks, the whole shape of him alive with youth and tapered lust and bridled power.

Muscles honed from fighting and climbing and riding flexed with his bend. When he straightened and stood with shoulders back it was with the same unselfconsciousness and certainty that Anabel had demonstrated before. He knew how he looked. He could see how she was looking at him.

He was hard and wanting her already, his manhood standing proud and tall, his eyes on Anabel showing as much intention as his sex. He returned her dazzled gaze, but could not quiet his groan in time when Anabel’s fingers curled around the base of him. He was firm, pulsing heat at her touch, the physical evidence of wanton readiness.

She stroked him gently, at first, experimentally, watching his reactions. He could look nowhere but down at Anabel kneeling, and her increasingly confident hand.

By watching him she could tell he liked it best when she tightened her fingers on his shaft and pulled up and down with quick, even strokes. If she sped up, she found, she could make him moan even more, though he fought valiantly to keep himself quiet in their hiding spot.

Now there was no mistaking the crashing sounds of men and horses and dogs in the woods far off. But in their cocooned bit of forest they were finding that the most important sounds were the ones that they could draw from each other.

Sullivan tried to bite off his strangled sound. “Lady,” he began again.

“A true lady,” said Anabel, “always returns in kind the favors that she has been given.” She went up on her knees and began to flick her tongue along the length of his shaft. He was already straining for her, but he swelled even more under her mouth. He was salty and sweet to her tongue.

The uncontrolled roll of his hips and his body’s shiver were all that she needed, but his whispered curse was delicious, too. She had never imagined that it could be so good to give pleasure as to receive it, but now she found she loved making this man lose control. Knowing that she was all that he could see and feel, that her touch could do this to him.

She felt like both master and supplicant, and realized why there was so much failure in aristocratic relationships. The levels of passion and trust needed to really engage in the act of making love were extraordinary. It was so much more than the transaction Houghton had sought. So many roles were taken, the game was always shifting.

Though Anabel was naked on her knees before the highwayman, she held the root of him in the palm of her hand, and with every path her lips took he moaned shameless appreciation and praise. When she began to gently suck, further experimenting, he could not even find words.

But finally it was too much; muscles tensed across his thighs and back, and he put an unsteady hand to Anabel’s cheek. She drew away from him and looked up again with wider eyes. She could barely breathe, equal parts anticipation and a growing ache that had her body keening for him.

He turned, though, his body taut and ready, groaning more than a little as he moved from her. Sullivan dropped into an easy crouch, and was rifling through bags. Anabel watched him, on her knees in the blankets. He looked extraordinary, sweat-slicked, his hair tousled from her fingers in it. She had to bite her lip to keep from exclaiming.

Finally he came back with a tiny pouch and its contents. He shifted to Anabel in another movement, catching her in a sudden kiss. The feel of him fully naked at last against her was a confirmation of it all.

She was secure in his arms, held by bare strength. His body thrummed his desire as surely as she was poised to show her own. She yielded to the kiss and to his arms with the surrender of need.

He had something in his palm when they pulled back for air. Sullivan held it up for just a moment, trying for breath. Then he said, “This is not something I stole. I have carried it a long while. Would you consider letting it grace your hand, and give this night what little sanctity we can?” Even his blue eyes were smiling, though his hushed voice was a touch sardonic. “Our own special sort, of course.”

It was a small gold signet ring, with a flat family crest stamped deep and faded. It was warm to the touch when she took it, but rather light. It settled on her finger and shone, but did not weigh her down.

“I will wear it gladly. But I do not need ceremony, Sullivan. I choose you.” She traced a line down his chest with her fingertip. “I think I chose you when we danced.”

His hair was ruffled, but his eyes were serious. “I knew when I lifted you down from the carriage.” He took her into his arms, and was levering them slowly toward the ground.

Anabel’s head met the blanket. “Ah, it was then, too,” she agreed, hardly breathing.

He kissed her insistently, drawing his teeth along the line of her lower lip. He was shaking with the effort to keep himself in control, to forgo his natural reaction when their bodies met in heated impact on the ground. “Will you have me, Anabel?” asked the highwayman.

She could only nod, at first, but found her voice at last. “Yes. Sullivan. And will you have me?”

He was in her as the words faded, pushing past the initial resistance of her body. He moved gently, carefully, considerately, his first thrust smoothly controlled. His face did not display the same reserve.

Anabel felt a quick flash of pain that faded under the thrill of him moving into her, beginning to fill the ache he had aroused there. When she tossed her head back and gasped but also reached to pull him closer, Sullivan released a shuddering breath and let himself go, let his body be unrelenting in its drive down.

She tilted her hips, trying to accommodate the hot, hard length of him, feeling pain and pleasure but passion most of all. Her heart had a fluttering beat and seemed to skip when he was finally able to come flush against her. He ducked his head then and began to lick and tease her nipple with tongue-twisting grace.

Her body overdosed on sensation, and, trying not to cry out, she wrapped her legs around him, hooking them over his lower back and buttocks. She hardly knew what to do, only that she had to draw him somehow further in.

Anabel was finding that the more she moved on him, the more she lifted her hips to experience more fully what he felt like, the better it was. And it was already too good: Sullivan’s mouth on her breasts, and his manhood buried to the hilt in her. Then he started to move in earnest.

His first thrusts were slow, still letting them both become used to it, the tortuously drawn-out in-and-out of their bodies sliding together. But he could not quite keep such perfect control now, not with Anabel meeting him with her slender, energetic hips, and her tight, wet inner heat taking him so well. He set them at a better, faster rhythm, like dancing, thrusting deep but faster, faster, starting to rock them to the most primeval rhythm of all. He kissed her mouth, and the kiss was hot, as instinctual as their motion.

Anabel learned quickly this new dance from his lead. How her hips could rise and fall with him, her hands skimming along his firm buttocks and finally tangling in his hair, anchoring him ever closer.

Sullivan kissed her neck, twisting his hips and losing control on his thrusts. He was hard and insistent within her, but his lips were soft on her skin. Their bodies met, again and again, driving together even as they both tried not to cry out. It was a losing battle; she had made too much noise already.

Anabel lay claimed and claiming him, her body reacting now on instinct alone. The highwayman’s hand was on her breasts, lightly caressing her nipple. No, it was in her hair, smoothing back her sweat-laden locks. Then his hand went between her legs, where their joined bodies still moved. Gently, he thumbed the bud of sensation there, stroking harder when Anabel tossed her head and hips and moaned without restraint.

For a long time he moved in her like that, his hand on her. It was all that Anabel could do then to hold on, buzzing energy racing up her thighs. It settled, tense and thrilling, at their apex. She found that if she bore down on him, tightening her innermost muscles around his thrusting shaft, that he would try not to swear and throw back his head, showing her the pale white column of his throat. And then he would look at her with shocked eyes until she did it again.

They met and yearned together to an impasse, a frenzy. Neither would give up the other and both were panting for breath, sweat glistening in the pale slivers of light from between the trees. They had both heard the men nearby, but, locking into each other, they gave no indication of it.

“Give in for me, lady,” whispered Sullivan. His lips pressed hers, then skimmed her collarbone. He was throbbing, at the very brink. But he said into her neck, “I want to feel what it feels like. Be in you when it happens.”

Anabel closed her eyes, opened them. His thrusts were relentless now, and his clever fingers at just the right spot. He was plundering her, but she was taking him in, her body rising with each stroke. Her thighs cradled him. “Come with me,” she urged, somehow forming words. She put her hands back in his hair, brought his head up. His face looked as desperate and feverish as she felt.

Sullivan lowered his body, taking some pressure from his arms, and Anabel loved the weight of him on her, loved his concentration on and in her. Now she sought to bring him along over the edge: over and into that all-consuming build of excitement and arousal and rhythm and heat and the perfect friction their bodies had made.

If she raised her hips more to meet him, stroke for stroke, if she held him in her with all of her focus on the hand that teased her like tinder–

The highwayman, giving in and giving up, moaned Anabel’s name against her cheek, her ear. But he was looking at her face and her eyes when he made his final push in. His hips jerked, and he tensed over Anabel, thrusting hard to be as deep in her as he could go.

Anabel gave in to it then, going with him, breathless, the exquisite tension and built-up desire overtaking, coming with an openmouthed silent cry. Silent only because they had risked too much noise already, and also because she rather thought she should be shouting.

She shook with relief and rode out the cresting wave of it, the ache blossoming into light-headed, dizzying joy. The wave washed over her belly, her legs and between them, making the world fracture into sensational fragments.

Sullivan was spilling into her, shocked pleasure written in the fine lines of his face. The feel of Anabel writhing her delight in his arms only intensified their connection, and this, too, they rode out together.

They were sticky with sweat and both near collapse, but neither could call an end to lovemaking, even with the evidence of exhausted flesh. They stayed joined, and pressed their mouths together, and touched slowly, and lingeringly caressed the places that clothes kept most hidden.

Anabel loved the way her hand fit to the back of his neck, how the strong curve of his buttock always flexed when her hand went there. Their kisses became lazy, hazy, dreamy. They had yielded to each other. Now they lay together, muddled, with tangled limbs, still nearly one. They were trying to memorize as much of the other as teeth and lips and tongue and fingertips would allow.

The woods were full of men now. They could hear them close and also far away, shouting amongst themselves, dogs barking. Anabel and Sullivan lay in afterglow, still within each other. Sullivan had shifted only a little to the side, and had his head at the crook of her neck, pillowed on her hair. They breathed in their shared scent.

“What do we do?” Anabel asked. Somewhere, a hunting dog howled.

“We keep hiding,” he said. “We have the best hiding place in all of England. Or thereabouts.” He drew a blanket over their tangled limbs and for a moment they seemed even more hidden. “They have not found us yet.”

She tilted him a look, sealed in his embrace, his strong sex barely flagging between her legs. “They can catch me now,” she said, smiling all the way up to her eyes.

“Oh, no.” He returned her earlier words in an exhalation on her neck. He kissed her there. “Oh, not yet.” He also returned her smile, but it was rueful. “We should rest. If we are to flee tomorrow with any conviction, we need to sleep.” But his arms shifted around Anabel’s lithe form, and he rolled them over so that she was resting on him. She was an easy weight on his powerful body.

For a while they tried to lie still, their limbs still intimate, trying to make themselves rest while the forest rang with the sounds of danger and the encroaching search. Anabel closed her eyes, but no sleep would arrive, not with her cheek pressed to the chest of the man beneath her, not with his naked, sensuous limbs keeping her so close. Where once it had been hard to ignore the tension between them, now it was impossible to deny what their bodies could do in unbridled heat together.

They made love twice more that night. Twice more in their hidden grove, passing the nervous hours into the mists of early morning. Though sounds of the search for them still intruded, Anabel and Sullivan did their best to drown out the noise.

The second time found her pushed and pressed to the trunk of a massive tree, the highwayman framing her there. She wound her arms around his neck, laughing, taking his fevered kisses, feeling awake and alive with their shared passion.

They could not stay apart for long, and soon Sullivan lifted her easily, sliding into Anabel as her legs found purchase on his back. She registered the rough bark of the tree behind her but could only really focus on the insistent manhood reclaiming her. On the man whose expression revealed the heights of gratification as he guided himself back in.

This time Anabel was more accustomed to it and their pace was furious, unrestrained, robbing them of air. He pistoned his hips, his grip on her buttocks tight and wonderful, keeping her up. Anabel clung and moved with him and let herself be shaped by his hands. She struggled not to cry out, muffling her delight against his shoulder, but heard her voice as something wild, unrestrained, blending in with the wood. His hard, affirming thrusts into her were taken in kind by her yielding embrace and rocking hips.

Sweat made the defined muscles of his body gleam. His copper hair was also burnished in the effort. Before, he had tried to keep his face composed for her, but now he let the rough animalistic need show through, let the lust grip his jaw and speed his hips.

They thrust and thrummed together, pinned against the tree until the pattern of the bark was impressed into Anabel’s skin, and the highwayman’s legs threatened to buckle and bring them both down. But not before each had had their fill of the other, panting and murmuring as he took her again and again in the dark.

The third time had been after some rest, with the faint sunlight only just beginning to lighten the gray. They had lain still at last, talking sometimes but both pretending to sleep at last for the other’s sake, and both pretending not to be bothered by the nearness of the searchers.

Anabel really had tried to sleep, but his skin on her was too hot. The arm resting over her abdomen was intended to be protective, but she could only think of his hand at the end of it, his fingers and all that they could do.

With his eyes closed, his face relaxed in an approximation of sleep, Sullivan still looked young, but she could see the marks of experience and hardship wearing on his well-formed features.

Old and new scars latticed his naked body with fine and angry lines. His generous lips were supple, offering no roguish quirk now. The more she looked on the man resting next to her the more she wanted him again, every gaze bringing fresh memories of what they had shared. Oh, God! To think this night might have seen her introduced as Lord Houghton’s fiancée—instead of being made to gasp naked in the forest, a wanted criminal between her legs.

Anabel’s soft laughter at it all roused him, and he opened his eyes. They were very blue, and tired, though they showed mirth and wanting too when he refocused on Anabel.

“You are amused, my lady?” Sullivan said, then opened his mouth when Anabel’s hand slipped beneath the blanket and began to stroke him. Somehow he could still respond to her touch, though they had not long since put their bodies through the paces of love. His proud member swelled and throbbed under her fingers. The highwayman lay still, his eyes closing again, and he breathed shallowly.

“I am lucky,” said Anabel. She caressed him with her hand, admiring the length and shape of him. “I was laughing at my luck.”

“Let us…ah, hope that it holds,” he said through gritted teeth. “We need some famous luck on our side, we do.”

“I dedicate this to the luck goddess, then,” Anabel whispered into his ear, sitting up with her hand still knowingly on him. Then she bent over his broad chest, ducking down first so that her breasts touched and electrified his skin. She straddled him. Her hair, tossed and tangled from their activities, was a fall of dark gold on her back.

Silent, watching her, Sullivan’s hands came up, and Anabel grasped them. Then she lowered herself down on his waiting shaft. Their joined hands tightened, and Anabel arched her back, nearly biting her lip bloody in the effort not to cry out. She sank down on him while he steadied her, his eyes on her as if she was all that existed.

When she had fully come astride him at last, they waited, quivering with the effect of it. Their bodies were worn down from the flight through the woods and the night’s exertions. But neither could rest and not partake of this, not with the future so uncertain, not while they were both young and alive and unhurt and their bodies sparked on contact.

Anabel began gently to ride him, trying to find the best way to roll her lower body. Up and down, slowly, slowly, leaning on his strength to lift up and bring herself fully down, sheathing him deep. This was slower and sleepier and in some ways more intimate than the loving they had shared before. Sullivan’s eyes never left hers, and Anabel could read his reaction to every shift of her hips. She felt her own reaction build in a low, uncurling ache whose remedy was close at hand.

She held him tight, liking too the feeling of being on top, of being the one in control of how and when he entered her. He was more than willing to share in this part, showing only unadulterated enthusiasm as she rode him with increased confidence. He freed a hand to palm her breasts, paying exquisite care to her nipples.

Every time she went down, Anabel could feel him pushing to the deepest parts of her, and sometimes she would hold herself there, keeping them joined. She leaned down and kissed his tender lips, found them open to her already. They breathed each other’s air; but when Anabel finally had to rest, her thighs shaking, her own control slipping away, Sullivan started to thrust up from beneath her.

He kept their momentum going with his powerful hips, holding her up with his hands. Then Anabel’s own fingers were freed to increase her pleasure: wondrously she touched her nipples, finding that lightly pinching them felt best; then she tried the special spot where her thighs met.

She came undone under her inquisitive fingers, and could not be quiet. The highwayman watched her while she did these things, appreciative and admiring. Their flesh met in heated, rhythmic slaps, and then Anabel felt her body’s tension finally overflow, the promise replaced with rushing pleasure. She collapsed on his chest, his name on her lips, while he took a slower end to his time in her. He was less explosive this time, when he went rigid and said something fluid in a language she did not understand. It was probably a curse, but it sounded beautiful.

“And how do you say your true name?” she asked, hardly able to rasp above a whisper. “So that I will know who to call out for.”

She felt him tilt his head, consider her.

“The Gaelic is Suileabhan,” he said finally. It sounded like open fields. “I told you it was close. Let us stick with Sullivan for now. But I will soon teach you some of the old tongue,” he went on. “It is a very fine language, like music to the ear. You will like it, Anabel.”

It was the first time either had spoken of a time that was not the desperate present. Neither could take up the thread further than that, though, and then Sullivan had insisted that they finally rest. Anabel lay still on him, listening to the way his heart beat as more and more light cut through the trees. From the way it was racing, she knew he was not really asleep, either.

Somehow she must have dozed at last, for they both jerked awake to intrusive sounds too close to be ignored. Men’s abrasive talking voices, nearly distinct; the awful sound of branches snapping nearby.

Sullivan tumbled her to the side with as much care as he could, but was soon on his feet. His breeches went on, and a gun belt with gun and short sword, and Lord Houghton’s boots. Another gun was already in his hand.

He stood calmly loading it while Anabel scrambled up, heart in her throat. Somehow she found the dropped shirt and pants from the night before. The pants were much too big and the shirt hung nearly to her thigh, but she belted the lot tight and looked for something to defend herself with. Sullivan would not go down without her there beside him.

He threw her an anxious glance as voices echoed from the trees around them. “Anabel, get back! For the love of God, please go! I’ll hold them off here, and you can make it to the horse—”

“No,” she said gently but firmly. “I won’t leave you. We started this and we must finish it together.”

His eyes on her were tragic now, but she went on without remorse. “Besides, they won’t stop at you. They want you for the principle of the thing, but Houghton needs me for the punishment.” She shivered. “I won’t go without a good fight first.”

Then his eyes went brilliant. “Aye. There is a reason we get on so well, lady.”

Shirtless in black riding breeches, primed for action, skilled fingers working his gun, Anabel wanted him even above the rising thrill of danger. Would she ever have her fill of this man, now so familiar and yet still so unknown? Would they take him from her, even now?

All of a sudden the worst of their fears were confirmed, and boughs nearby started to shake. Anabel tried not to look as terrified as she felt. She wanted to be brave for her highwayman, who was standing so courageously. But the mere thought of falling sway to unforgiving authorities now that she knew what it was to be free was unthinkable. Her public embarrassment and wretchedness would be enough, but the private repercussions would be terrible. She saw Lord Houghton’s face where Sullivan’s had been, possessing her, claiming her as his own. Then Anabel went looking for a large stick.

She found one and gripped it while the leaves rustled. Sullivan had his gun aimed steadily, almost lazily, at the trees.

He looked calm, even bared to the waist, but she could see how bunched the muscles of his back were, how primed he was for instant action. He turned to her once, and their eyes met in silent accord. He grinned at Anabel’s stick, ducked his head to her, and then the boughs parted and the men marched in.

There were five of them, of unknown cast and creed and character. They seemed to block out the light with their girth. All wore shades of black and dark green and brown, forest-blending colors. Three were middle-aged but two were younger, closer in kind to Anabel. Their faces, a mix of clean-shaven and bearded, roughened by weather, were lethally set. All of them were armed.

But they were not soldiers. They couldn’t be constables. And Sullivan knew them—she could tell by watching his body’s reaction. He did not lower the gun.

The men soon crowded the little clearing, and they faced off warily. They had guns and swords and sharp, unsympathetic faces. Yet there was something familiar about the way they moved, and how the trees seemed to bend and part for them.

One big man, grizzled with silver hair, and carrying the largest sword, was clearly the leader. “Well, you’ve gone and done it now, Sully, my boy,” he said. He did not smile.

Sullivan still held the gun level, but he bowed a little. “Davy. Gentlemen. Pleasant morning for a stroll?”

The man called Davy had a meaty hand on his own gun. “Let’s do this as kindly as we can, my young friend,” he said. “You don’t know what you’ve got.” His eyes settled on Anabel for a long moment, and she felt his scrutiny as though he were stripping her bare and parceling up her worth. “They are tearing these woods apart. You went too far this time, mate, when you risked the rest of us. Though I understand better now. We thought you had gone clear off your head.”

“I am sorry about the search,” said Sullivan, staring from behind his barrel. “They will be gone once they cannot find us today.”

Davy shook his head slowly. He was not the monster Anabel had imagined upon approach, but a consummate businessman most of all. He considered himself shrewd, instincts that had kept him alive. She realized that she was standing in a circle of some of Britain’s finest highwaymen, but she was too frightened to appreciate it. Especially when Davy continued. “We will have to take the girl. They’re offering thousands.”

When Anabel brandished her stick in response, one of the younger men put in, “Feisty. We should give you that, O’Rourke.”

Anabel’s highwayman was smiling grimly, looking only at Davy, his face an open challenge. “You will do no such thing. And I will tell you why.”

The men shifted their weight and waited. She could tell that they liked Sullivan, and no one was in any particular rush to kill the other. But there was an undercurrent of deadly seriousness that marked their interaction.

Sullivan turned to look at her, eyes off the men for only a moment. “Anabel. Please wrap up our blankets. And hand me that saddlebag.”

With hands that tried not to tremble, she bent and scooped up the heavy sack. He winked at her once, then wheeled back to the ring of thieves. Anabel began to roll up the blankets, moving slowly lest her motion distract them and make the situation worse. She could feel some of their eyes on her, considering, and fought off a shiver.

Sullivan’s voice was firm and did not waver. “Let me tell you why. You have two options, far as I see it, and I see very well. The first is to let us go, cover our escape, and for the effort split the heavy haul that I took last night.”

He threw the loaded saddlebag across to Davy, hard. The bear of a man caught it, already weighing the contents in his hand.

“Or,” he said, smiling while his eyes blazed, “You may try and take the lady by force. One or two of you may succeed at it. The rest will be dead with me. Then you must try and get the lady, who does not like you, across to her would-be rescuers. And if you so much as touch her you will be given the gallows, and if you do not touch her, you will be given the gallows. Then you may collect your reward from the authorities.” His fury and disdain were palpable. “Which will it be, Davy, old friend? Easy money or a short dance on a long rope—if I don’t shoot you first.”

The men looked at each other. Anabel tried to remember how to breathe. Sullivan’s grin, past roguish, was nearly feral now. “Richards and Old Tom don’t want to kill me, anyway, and Bello is already thinking about how much ale he’ll buy with his share,” said her highwayman, nodding across the clearing to the men there. “De Etienne just wants a turn with my lady—” and a dark-haired young man swept off his hat, laughingly bowing to Anabel “—which, alas, is not in his cards. But easy partings can be. What do you say, Dave? For old time’s sake?”

The big man studied them as he hefted the bag in his hand. “You are a young bastard,” he swore at last, “and a lucky one, too.”

Anabel could have smiled but was too busy not shaking. Her fingers felt frozen around the clutch of blankets, one hand still holding her stick.

“No more?” Davy asked.

Sullivan’s gaze was dead-on. “No. You know I send it all away when I get it. You’ve searched here enough.”

The men began to shift uneasily, but their leader only shrugged. Desperate, needing them to go, to be gone, Anabel put down her burdens. She snatched up her dress but left the bejeweled dancing shoes hidden in the grass. The dress fabric was rich enough, heavy with gold , embroidery and seed pearls. She marched forward and presented the glimmering pile to the head highwayman with a flourish.

Her head held high, doing her best to be brave, Anabel said, straight-shouldered, “Have this, sir, with my thanks. You will find it worth several hundred pounds.” The man looked at her, raised his eyebrows and split a wide smile. He took the dress and started to speak, but she went boldly on. “You will give them a piece of it, as proof that you tracked us, and then you will set them in the absolute wrong direction. Then, if you are smart men, you will resume the search for us and vanish into these trees as though your lives depended on it. Which they do.”

Anabel turned on her heel and paced back to Sullivan’s side. His expression when he looked at her was almost better than their lovemaking. Almost. She returned his look in kind.

“Lad,” said Davy, “you and your lass drive a hard bargain. You are lucky, again, how much more I like you than the magistrates. But you are playing a dangerous game here, children. I expect them to try smoking you out soon.”

Everyone seemed to exhale, some of the men even cracking good-natured grins. They really hadn’t wanted to kill Sullivan, though they had been prepared to. And despite their wanting eyes on her, Anabel thought they might rather prefer their women willing.

Sullivan finally lowered his gun, and with a quick, sure step crossed the space to clap the large man’s wrist in his hand. He opened his mouth, but Davy shook his head. “You had promise, and you might have had a brilliant career. Maybe the girl is worth it and maybe she isn’t—you won’t let me find out. But if you are not gone from here with her in fifteen minutes, I will know, and then I will tell them which way you are really going. And I’ll still have my money.”

The young man De Etienne saluted them with joking good nature, but the man she guessed to be Old Tom said slowly, “You cannot come back again, son. While they want you they want us all.”

Sullivan swallowed, but nodded seriously. “I understand. My thanks to you, Tom, for everything. To you all.” She was watching him sever all ties as surely as she had left behind the carriage and her daughterly duty. These men had been important to him: there was a certain level of honor and camaraderie and shrewd business amongst these daring thieves. Fellowship had been between them, even if true trust never could be. But though not all understood Sullivan’s choice, they all, to a man, would rather see a piglike lordling pissed off than their foolish young friend at the end of a rope.

“Fifteen minutes,” Davy warned once more, and then the men melted back into the trees. No real path showed that they had been there.

They had no time to shake or thrill in the aftermath of it, or to think on the concepts of bluffs and luck. Only one crushing, blinding kiss, seeking affirmation that they had survived. Then Sullivan had their bundled blankets in his arms, and he led the way. Anabel carried her dancing shoes. They ran. This time it was they who crashed through the trees, needing speed over the hazards of sound. Sooner than she would have thought they were back at the hidden horse, their shelter for the night swallowed forever by reaching branches.

Her cheeks were flushed, and he must have thought her afraid, for he stopped tying on the blankets and came to her side. He took her into his arms. “Anabel! Don’t worry—I lied. We have plenty more money and things to barter, sewn into the lining of the quilts and bags. We can make it a time on our own, and we will find a way after that. As long as we are running we are free. If we are together I find that is all that I need.”

Her pulse was thrilling as he spoke, and she swayed a little in his embrace. She felt giddy at his words, but petrified at the reality of their situation. Nowhere in England felt safe. Everywhere seemed within Houghton’s reach, and even the woods were now closed to them. In London Anabel’s face was too well-known. When they were in the saddle and racing on the back roads to the city under the barest streaks of dawn, she clung to him and voiced her fears.

“We’ll stay with old Maddie at the Stag’s Head,” Sullivan said, as though they could really outrun the men who sought them. “And get new clothes ordered up and stroll around town as a perfectly respectable couple for a few days.” He slanted a look back at her, his eyebrow up, then trained his eyes back on the road. “That will not be very respectable, seeing as how you’ll be with an Irishman. But I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“I like this notion of respectability,” laughed Anabel. “But oh, I hope not, about the behavior.” He squeezed her thigh, and she said, “And then?”

His voice was suddenly heavy. “I know what you are thinking, lady mine. But I cannot take you to Ireland. Maybe one day again she will be ready to receive you. but we cannot go there now.”

They were silent save for the pounding of the horse’s hooves. Their minds plumbed possibilities and tried to push back intruding fears. They had to be thinking the same thing in the end. But it was Anabel who finally said it, leaning in close to his shoulder. “We could go to America—”

Sullivan exhaled, sharply, and the horse galloped on even faster. That was it. In America, that massive young country, they would be under threat from no provincial lord. In America, their respective accents would be greeted as collectively foreign, and no one would think very hard about them being English and Irish. They would be that nice young British couple, always polite, always trading touches. In America there were social classes but nothing like what they were here.

Anabel and Sullivan, innocuous, self-sufficient, smiling, could start new lives in a new land. They had only to pass through London, surmounting searchers who would not expect them to lodge in the city and start ordering wardrobes. If Davy was good on his word, the searchers were headed in the wrong direction anyway.

Then they could book passage for a modestly comfortable cabin on some big ship, and retire to their room together for weeks of making love and learning each other. Anabel said some of these things and implied the others, and Sullivan’s head went back and he laughed and shouted wildly, “To the docks, the docks!”

Then he was more sober. “America, then. And what are we to do once we’re there? I’ll still need to be sending money home—”

Anabel tightened her arms around him. “We will think of something. Or we will get very lucky.” Her slow smile spread. “There are many coaches in America, you know. Stagecoaches, and mail coaches, too. They have many, many covered wagons.” He could not see the wryness of her smile, but she thought he could feel it.

He was laughing again. He held the reins in one hand and caught her free fingers with the other. The sounds he made were as fresh and crisp as the wind they whipped through. Under them the horse beat out a steady gallop. The trees and everything in them were vanishing to a green line in the distance. Anabel found that she was also laughing, with joy and exhaustion and anticipation.

“Ah, lady,” said the sometimes highwayman, “I think I may love you.”

“And I may love you,” Anabel gamely agreed, “Suileabhan O’Rourke. We will have a fine time finding out if that is so, don’t you think?”

“I look forward to nothing more than our crossing.” He glanced back at her once more before they came in sight of the city walls. His blue eyes were bright, reflecting the promise of them. “No regrets, Anabel Mayward? Could you wish you weren’t stolen?”

“None, and never,” Anabel answered. She did not pause to think about it. Her arm looped her partner’s waist, and she leaned into his unfaltering strength. The road snaked and led to London, the boats moored there, the sea. They rode it well together, bodies in perfect motion “Only think of how we’ll dance.”

ISBN: 978-1-4089-2789-2

Taken by the Highwayman

© Amelia Casey 2010

First Published in Great Britain in 2008
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited
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