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  Her hand slipped through the slit in her skirt, feeling the laden pouch. The tapes beneath her petticoat fastened at her back and were impossible to reach one-handedly through the slit, so she couldn’t untie the pouch and throw it from her at this point even if she wished. And she didn’t wish. It would be a cowardly waste of a morning’s work. There was enough to pay the rent, redeem Papa’s precious books and buy his medicine, and put good food on the table for a month to come. And if she gave it up, those heart-stopping, nauseating moments of terror that had accompanied every artful brush of her fingertips would have been for nothing.

  Resolutely, she withdrew her hand and slithered sideways through a noisy family group bewailing the disappearance of a child. They closed up behind her, arguing violently. The rank of chairmen was almost ahead of her now … three more steps …

  “Shoreditch!” she gasped to the leading chair, and moved to step inside as one of the two chairmen held open the door.

  “No, I don’t think so, Miss Morgan.” A hand closed over her shoulder as the quiet voice spoke, gently mocking, behind her. “You see, I really do feel I have a duty to see you safely restored to the bosom of your family.”

  She was caught. But he couldn’t know for sure that she had his watch. She was hardly dressed like a common thief, and the only evidence he had was that she’d been standing beside him when the cry of “pickpocket” had gone up. She turned to him with a haughty toss of her head. “Sir, I find your attentions unwelcome. I trust you won’t oblige me to summon the constable.”

  Amusement glittered in the gray eyes bent with such mocking solicitude upon her. “On the contrary, ma’am. Perhaps I should summon him for you.”

  “You goin’ to Shoreditch, lady, or not?” the chairman demanded truculently before she could gather her wits to deal with this very deliberate calling of her bluff.

  “Most certainly I am.” With relief she turned again to enter the sedan chair.

  “No,” her infuriating companion said in the same affable tone as before. “No, I really don’t think so.” Taking her arm now in a grip that meant business, he drew her away from the line of chairs. “You and I are going to have a little talk, Miss Morgan.”

  “About what, sir?” she snapped.

  “Oh, I think you know,” he said equably. “A little matter of private property and public assaults. But let us get out of this crush.”

  She seemed to have no choice, but at least there was no more talk of constables. Maybe he’d be satisfied with the return of his property and that would be an end to it. She said nothing, offering no further resistance as he swept her long before him through the gradually decreasing crowd.

  Suddenly the atmosphere changed. The mob began to push and shove with greater force, and a panicked murmur ran through their ranks. Voices were raised in warning, and the murmur of panic became a full-throated roar.

  “Odd’s blood,” Octavia’s companion swore as he identified the roar. He tightened his grip on her arm. “Trust the press gang to know where to find good pickings. We have to get out of here before they run amok.”

  Octavia lost all desire to free herself from her companion, who was suddenly her only anchor. Her feet were swept from beneath her, and if he hadn’t dragged her against his body, she would have gone down to the cobbles. The whole mass of humanity surged forward, men, women, and children screaming as they fought to get out of the square and into the surrounding streets where they could run freely. An army of cudgel-wielding sailors headed by a group of naval lieutenants poured into the square from the Edgeware Road, rounding up men and boys indiscriminately as they swept down upon them, inexorable as a tidal wave. Women’s sobs and cries of protest as their husbands and sons were torn from their sides rose above the angry, frightened roar of the frantic crowd.

  The press gang wouldn’t take up a gentleman, and Octavia’s captor was undoubtedly a gentleman, but their danger lay in being swamped by the crowd. The screams of the trampled rose high-pitched with anguish, then faded into long drawn-out groans of pain and despair as the heedless feet kept coming, kicking and stamping on fallen bodies.

  Octavia lost all sense of direction; she was aware only of the strong comforting grip on her arm as they were tumbled along on the tide. She could see nothing except chests and arms until something flashed across her sideways vision.

  “Over there!” she yelled, trying to make herself heard above the tumult. She darted sideways, lowering her head and pushing like an enraged bullock toward the deep doorway that had caught her eye. Her companion added his own bulk to the process, carving a path sideways through the throng until they were huddled in the doorway and the tide was sweeping past them.

  “Thank God!” Octavia leaned against the door at her back trying to catch her breath. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and her fichu was torn, exposing the creamy swell of her bosom. Her companion’s gaze slowly drifted over her disordered appearance, and abruptly she pulled her cloak tighter around her, covering her dishevelment, aware of the weight of the pouch lying heavily against her thigh.

  “You have sharp eyes, Miss Morgan,” her companion observed calmly, leaning beside her, watching the passing stampede. “We’ll stay here until it’s over.”

  “I presume you too have a name, sir,” she said in an attempt to recapture her earlier assurance.

  “Oh, most certainly,” he agreed, taking a japanned snuffbox from the deep pocket of his coat. He flicked the lid and delicately took a pinch.

  Nothing else was forthcoming. Octavia tapped her foot on the stone lintel. “Am I to be told it, sir?”

  He looked at her, one eyebrow quizzically raised. “I confess I hadn’t given the question any thought. However …” He bowed, managing an elegant flourish in the confined space. “At this moment Lord Nick is at your service, Miss Morgan.”

  She stared at him, trying to remember where she’d heard the name before. And what did he mean by at this moment? “Oh?” she said, her jaw dropping. “Lord Nick, the highwayman?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Such calumny. I don’t know where people get these stories from.”

  Octavia shook her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. No gentleman, after all, but Lord Nick, the highwayman given the devil’s colloquial name for his uncanny ability to evade the law. If he was who he said he was—not that he looked in the least as she’d imagined a highwayman would look—then it seemed unlikely he was intending to lay a charge against her. But it seemed only reasonable and friendly in the circumstances to return his property without further delay. She slipped her hand inside her cloak, sliding her fingers into the slit in her gown, intending to extract the watch from the pouch. Then she realized that he was watching her every movement, a sardonic spark in his eyes.

  She let her hand fall to her side and smiled nonchalantly. She didn’t like the look in those slate-gray eyes, and this was far too public a spot for an unsolicited admission of guilt, even to a fellow pirate.

  The rushing mob was diminishing now, the cries and screams fading into the distance.

  “Come,” Lord Nick said. “I think it’s safe to leave now.”

  “You go your way and I’ll go mine, sir,” she said, stepping out of the doorway. There was no sign now of a sedan chair; the chairmen would have made off to safety as soon as the cry of “press gang” had gone up—they were strong, well-muscled men, perfect candidates for His Majesty’s Navy.

  “You seem remarkably obtuse for someone who I’m convinced has a sharp head on her shoulders,” her companion remarked in a tone of mild exasperation. “We have yet to have our little discussion, if you recall.” He looked round, getting his bearings. “My horse is at the Rose and Crown … this way, I believe.”

  Their “little discussion” was obviously unavoidable. But at least there would be relative privacy at an inn. Resigned, Octavia allowed herself to be guided through the littered but now quiet streets to the Rose and Crown.

  However, instead of entering the inn, they wen
t round to the stableyard. “Do you prefer to ride pillion or before me?” Lord Nick asked with casual courtesy as he gestured to an ostler.

  “Neither,” Octavia said. “What are you talking about?” Every time she thought she understood what was happening, this man shuffled the pieces on the board.

  He sighed. “I’m not usually considered inarticulate…. Bring my horse, lad…. We have about five miles to ride, Miss Morgan. So …” He turned his hands palm up as if the rest were self-explanatory.

  A hot tide of anger chased guilt, resignation, and apprehension into the mists. She’d allowed him to call the tune thus far because of the guilty weight of the pouch beneath her skirts, but he’d taken sufficient advantage of her disadvantage.

  “I’m not coming with you,” Octavia said quietly, her anger visible only in her snapping eyes and her increased pallor. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but if you attempt to abduct me, I’ll scream so loudly it’ll bring every constable in the area.”

  He appeared not to have heard her, his attention directed toward the lad bringing his horse, a big-shouldered roan who looked easily capable of carrying two riders.

  “Now, Miss Morgan … pillion or in front of me?” He turned back to her. “Either will be perfectly comfortable, I assure you. Peter is as steady as a rock.”

  “Are you perhaps hard of hearing?” Octavia asked, her voice low and fierce. “I bid you good day.” She spun on her heel and stalked out of the yard, her back prickling as she waited for the arresting hand on her shoulder. But nothing happened. She walked unmolested out of the yard of the Rose and Crown and into the narrow cobbled lane.

  The cobbles were slippery with wet snow, and she shivered, but with the dull fatigue of anticlimax as much as with the cold. A church clock chimed nine. It seemed extraordinary that it should still be so early after all the excitements and the dramas of the morning. Her father would be deep in his texts by now, unaware of the time or the weather, probably unaware of her absence. If she didn’t answer his call, Mistress Forster would.

  Mistress Forster was owed two weeks’ rent.

  Octavia’s step lengthened at the thought. She could look after that now.

  The pounding of hooves behind her at first didn’t intrude on her reverie. When they did, they were almost upon her. She was hurrying down the center of the lane, avoiding the filthy water and refuse in the kennel at the side. Now she had no choice but to jump sideways, splashing through the kennel, if she wasn’t to be run down. It was a common enough hazard in the side streets of the city.

  “A pox on your knavish soul!” she swore in most unladylike accents as the kennel filth caked her boots and soiled the hem of her cloak and gown that she hadn’t had time to lift clear. “May you rot in …”

  The rest of the curse was lost as the rider drew abreast of her, swooped low in the saddle, and caught her up with all the dexterity of a performer at Philip Astley’s Amphitheatre.

  Octavia found herself in the saddle of the roan, the hard body of Lord Nick at her back, his encircling arm holding her steady on her perch.

  She opened her mouth and screamed, a shrill, piercing clamor. Casements were flung open along the lane, curious faces hanging out, peering down through the thickening veil of snow.

  “You wish to visit the local magistrate?” Lord Nick murmured against her ear, making no attempt to still her screams. “I’m sure he’ll be interested in what you’re concealing beneath your skirt.”

  Her scream faded into the pale cold air. “And I’m sure he’ll be interested to know who’s laying the charge,” she hissed. “They hanged two of your kind this morning, I’m sure they’ll be delighted to lay hands on the third.”

  “And just who is going to identify me, my dear Miss Morgan?”

  She had no evidence but his own words. And she carried on her own person the most damning evidence of her own thievery. Once again she acknowledged defeat in bitter silence.

  They turned out of the alley. The snow was falling heavily now, and Octavia had no sense of where they were or in what direction they were proceeding.

  “Where are you taking me?” Not that it would make much difference to know, she reflected dourly, trying to control her apprehension.

  “Into the country. Somewhere quiet where we can have our little discussion.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” It was a feeble defiance, but she felt it was necessary to make, anyway.

  “But I have something to say to you.”

  “Let me down and I’ll give you back your goddamned watch!” Octavia exclaimed.

  “Oh, yes, you will give it back to me,” he agreed equably. “All in good time, though, Miss Morgan. All in good time.”

  Chapter 2

  They rode through a maze of streets becoming ever narrower and poorer until they reached the river. Octavia felt she was inhabiting some dreamscape rapidly becoming nightmare as her own familiar London was left behind. For one wild moment she contemplated leaping from the back of the roan, but she was a long way from the slippery ground, and her companion’s encircling arm was holding her far more tightly than mere safety required. Women were frequently abducted from the streets, sometimes even from their own homes, but they were usually wealthy widows or young heiresses to be coerced into marriage. She didn’t qualify on either count. Did the highwayman simply have rape on his mind?

  “What do you want with me?” she demanded. “Why would you be interested in a common pickpocket?”

  “A most uncommon pickpocket,” her companion corrected in the amused, equable tones he’d used throughout. “A beautiful, well-spoken, well-dressed, and most artful pickpocket. That little fainting ploy was very clever. You rob me of my watch, then use me to effect your escape from the scene of the crime.” He laughed. “What a gull you must have thought me.”

  “So it’s revenge you want,” she said slowly, although he didn’t sound in the least vengeful. “What are you going to do? Ravish me? Rob me? Kill me?”

  “What a vivid imagination you have, Miss Morgan. Ravishment has never appealed to me.” He chuckled. “At the risk of sounding a coxcomb, I’ve never found it necessary, to be perfectly honest with you.”

  Octavia could think of nothing to say to this, since it struck her as probably perfectly true. Despite her anger and apprehension, she had to acknowledge that there was something dismayingly attractive about the highwayman.

  “However,” he continued thoughtfully, “if the idea appeals to you, I’m sure we could find a way to enjoy it.”

  The cool effrontery of this, tuning so neatly into her thoughts, brought her swinging round in the saddle, palm raised to wipe the mocking little smile from his lips.

  But he was ready for her, catching her wrist in his whip hand and forcing it down to her lap. “You’re a little too quick with your hands, Miss Morgan. I haven’t forgotten your earlier attack, for which I’m afraid I do intend to take reprisals.” There was no laughter on his face now, and his eyes were cold gray pools. “I don’t take kindly to being assaulted. Best you remember that.”

  “It was provoked,” she said, pale with fury. “You wouldn’t release me. And now you insult me!”

  “Your pardon, but I didn’t realize it was an insult,” he responded with a careless shrug, but still maintaining his hold on her wrist. “We’re two of a kind, my dear. I could imagine we might enjoy each other a great deal in the right circumstances.”

  “Arrogant, insufferable cur!” she hissed, aware of how helpless she was to do more than use her tongue to express her outrage.

  “So I’ve been told on occasion,” the highwayman said indifferently. “But this discussion is becoming irksome, and if I’m not mistaken, we’re heading for a blizzard, so I suggest you hold your tongue until we find ourselves warm and dry again.”

  The weather was growing increasingly miserable, and her words would only be snatched away on the wind, so Octavia lapsed into fulminating silence. They crossed over Westminster Bridge, and the wind swe
eping off the river came at them in vicious gusts, blowing stinging snow into their faces. The few travelers they encountered scurried along with their heads down, cloaks pulled tight around them.

  They cantered through the village of Battersea, where doors were shut tight. They passed an inn, and Octavia looked longingly at the smoke curling from its chimneys. But the highwayman clearly had a destination in mind and wasn’t going to stop until they reached it. The houses were farther and farther apart now, little hamlets shrouded in snow, only a mangy mongrel or two cowering in the narrow village streets. Octavia wondered what her father was thinking, huddled in their lodgings on Weaver Street. If he thought about it at all, he’d assume she’d taken shelter from the storm….

  But perhaps she’d never see him again.

  As they rode deeper into the countryside, that possibility seemed ever more a probability. Since her arrival in London three years earlier, she’d never been this far outside the city, and she couldn’t imagine how she would ever get back, even supposing the highwayman released her after he’d done whatever he intended to do with her…. What did he mean by taking reprisals because she’d forced him to drop her at Tyburn?

  To her annoyance tears filled her eyes. Tears of fright and cold and helplessness, they trickled warmly down her icy cheeks, mingling with the snow. Then she bit her hp hard, concentrating on the pain until the moment of weakness passed. She would not give her insufferable abductor the satisfaction of seeing her weep.